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COEOilGHT DEPOSIT. 




























THE SINS OF— 

By J. GEORGE T. GRANT, D.D. 









THE SINS OF- 

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By J. GEORGE T. GRANT, D.D. 



DORRANCE & COMPANY 

Publishers Philadelphia 



COPYRIGHT 

1924 

DORRANCE A COMPANY INC 





£ 







Manufactured in the United State* of America 


ed State* 

MAR 2 6 ’24 

2C1A77770 


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THE SINS OF 






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THE SINS OF— 

PROLOGUE 

“Gentlemen, the Queen.” 

“The Queen, God bless her.” 

The toast was drunk in silence, followed by deafen¬ 
ing cheers. In every quarter of the globe this toast 
was being proposed to one of the most wonderful 
and beloved of all women, Queen Victoria. It was the 
twenty-eighth day of June, 1897, and her Majesty’s 
subjects were wild with enthusiasm, in pledging 
their Queen, who this day was celebrating the sixtieth 
year of her reign. London was gayly decorated in 
all the paraphernalia which speaks of joy. Its streets 
and parks were thronged with merry-makers from all 
quarters of the globe. Stately Indian Princes and 
their train, Fifth Avenue habitues, Counts, Barons, 
Dukes and Earls were for the week, at any rate, mak¬ 
ing London their rendezvous. 

The day had been one of perfection. No clouds had 
marred the sky, and the sun had sunk to rest, bathed 
in colors of which artists dream. A warm evening 
followed and practically everybody was out of doors. 
A crowd had assembled down Park Lane, for the Duke 
of Hampshire was giving a Royal Ball and all Society, 
with a very big “S,” would be in attendance. Cheers 
greeted the various notables as they left their carriages 
and slowly wended their way up the broad, carpet- 
covered stone steps which led to the Duke’s house. 

In a house a few doors away, Lord Bitterne, im- 
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maculately dressed, sat impatiently waiting for his 
wife who had not yet finished dressing. His Lordship 
was one of those gentlemen who immediately gave one 
the impression of a thorough snob. He was mean to 
the very letter, and although he held a responsible 
cabinet position, he was not at all persona grata with 
his colleagues. His wife, Lady Bitterne, was a pretty 
little woman, the daughter of a country solicitor, who 
had managed Lord Bitterne’s country estate. His 
Lordship had met the daughter at a dance given by 
his mother at the Manor, and although he had given 
the world in which he lived to understand that he 
would remain a perpetual bachelor, he deceived them, 
and at the same time outraged their noble feelings by 
marrying Nancy Carstairs. Nancy herself could not 
at the time realize that she was actually to marry this 
austere man. In the first place, she was afraid of 
him and not only that, but her love was already pledged 
to her boy sweetheart. 

Jack Matthews, the son of the Vicar, had asked her 
to wait for him, and she had promised. Of course that 
was a long time ago, and Jack, now Major in the 
Bengal Artillery, was a long way from home. Never¬ 
theless, Nancy still loved him, and Jack regularly wrote 
and told her of his affections. Her father, however, 
insisted that she marry Lord Bitterne and pooh-poohed 
any such nonsense as love between her and Jack Mat¬ 
thews. 

Nancy gave her promise to Lord Bitterne, and a 
month later they were quietly married. This was five 
years ago, and their boy was now three years of age. 
Nancy had always regretted her hasty promise to 
marry Lord Bitterne. His infatuation had soon worn 
off. He treated her with disdain. She had failed 
miserably in his estimation to live up to her station. 


SIN 


9 


Nancy had done her best, but she felt lost in the circle 
in which her husband moved. 

Tonight, Lord and Lady Bitterne were attending 
the Duke of Hampshire’s ball, and their carriage was 
waiting. His Lordship glanced at his watch, and 
noting that it was a few minutes to ten, he lost com¬ 
plete control of his temper. Hastily ascending the 
stairs, and without waiting for permission to enter, he 
threw open the door of his wife’s room and demanded 
with asperity, whether she intended to keep him wait¬ 
ing all the evening. 

Lady Bitterne did not feel at all well. Her face was 
white and drawn as though she were suffering pain. 
He was quick to note her appearance, but instead of 
enlisting his sympathy, or at least what little feeling of 
affection he had for her, it only increased his anger. 
He quickly realized that it would be impossible for her 
to attend the ball, and to go without her would only 
set tongues wagging, as it was fairly well known that 
Lord Bitterne had regretted marrying beneath his sta¬ 
tion in life, and knew how incompetent his wife really 
was to adapt herself to society’s ways. 

Lady Bitterne rose and moved unsteadily towards 
her husband. “All right, all right,” snarled his Lord- 
ship, “I can see that you are not fit to go out, but why 
in the name of goodness could you not have chosen 
some other evening in which to fall ill?” and without 
waiting to bid his wife goodnight he descended the 
stairs and taking his hat from the butler, he entered 
his carriage, resolved that he would attend the ball at 
all events and let people think what they might. 

When her husband had left the room, Lady Bitterne 
sank into a chair, and bidding her maid put away the 
finery that she was about to wear, dismissed her. Her 
face was still pale, but she seemed very much relieved 


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at the departure of her husband. After a few minutes 
she drew her chair to the window and let the cool 
night air play on her fevered brow. As she looked 
out over the park and noted the joyful throngs thread¬ 
ing their way through the brilliantly illumined grounds, 
a deep sadness came over her. 

That morning she had received a note from Jack 
Matthews, the first for five long years. After in¬ 
quiring after her health, and that of her husband and 
son, he had intimated, that being in London for a 
few hours, he would take the liberty of calling on her 
that evening. The receipt of this letter had opened 
again the wound in her heart that she thought was 
already healed. She dared not let her husband know, 
for his jealousy had been the hardest thing to bear in 
her married life, for he had known of her engagement 
in the early days, and had alluded to it with contempt. 

Lady Bitterne had decided that she would go to 
the Ball and let Jack Matthews think that she had not 
received his letter, but the sudden shock had proved 
too much for her. Jack Matthews, now Major, rang 
the bell with a certain amount of trepidation and 
nervousness. It had been a bitter fight for him these 
five long years, for he had loved Nancy with the love 
that only comes once into a man’s life. He was admit¬ 
ted by the butler who carried his card to Lady Bit¬ 
terne. Nancy slowly, very slowly, descended the 
stairs, one hand pressed to her heart, praying for 
strength to go through the ordeal of meeting her first 
and only love. 

Major Matthews rose to his feet on her entrance. 

“I hope that your Ladyship will pardon,” he began, 
and then stopped. Her face told him everything that 
he would have given his life to avert. An unhappy 
marriage contract. “My dear, oh my dear,” was all 


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11 


he could say, while he clung to the little hand she had 
offered him on her entrance. 

Nancy tried to smile to make light of the secret that 
she had unwittingly revealed. “Nancy dear, why 
didn’t you wait for me? God knows I too have suf¬ 
fered. If only your father—” 

“Hush, Jack, father is dead; he did not understand, 
and I am sure that he thought it all for the best.” 

Jack Matthews came very close to her, “Nancy, 
promise me if ever you need a friend—” 

“When you have finished making love to my wife, 
I should be glad if you will leave my house, you 
scoundrel.” The cold, hard voice of Lord Bitterne 
broke upon them like a pistol shot. 

“Edward, dear, this is Major Matthews; you re¬ 
member hearing me speak of him,” said Lady Bitterne 
in a trembling voice. 

Lord Bitterne took notice of his wife’s words, 
but kept his eyes fixed on Major Matthews. 

“I bid you leave, sir,” he said, “or I will have you 
thrown out as I would a dog.” 

Major Matthews looked contemptuously at his lord- 
ship for a moment and then said: 

“I am afraid that you have made a bitter mistake. 
Lady Bitterne is an old friend of mine, and being 
in London for a few hours, I called to pay my respects. 
I have no wish to remain any longer in your house, sir, 
and I bid you goodnight.” 

He crossed over to Nancy and taking her hand bade 
her good-bye and left the house. 

Jack Matthews did not want to add to the unhappi¬ 
ness which he knew Nancy suffered, but he restrained 
himself with difficulty when he thought of the insult¬ 
ing words Lord Bitterne had used. He walked slowly 
to the hotel at which he was staying the night, resolved 


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that for Nancy’s sake, and for the sake of her son he 
would never see her again. Within an hour after his 
departure from Lord Bitterne’s residence, Nancy, 
carrying a small portmanteau containing what few per¬ 
sonal effects she needed, left her home forever. The 
last words she ever heard her husband say were,“Never 
let me see your face again, you abandoned woman, 
you outcast.” 

It was a heartbroken woman who, in a voice filled 
with pain, asked for a ticket to Leewood, a little village 
some twenty miles outside of London. It was after 
midnight when she alighted at the station. She gave 
her ticket to the sleepy looking porter, and made her 
way down the quiet lane that led to her destination. The 
moon cast its golden shadows over the tiny hamlet, a 
thousand scents were in the air. From a nearby cop¬ 
pice came the sweet cadence of the nightingale, but 
Nancy neither saw nor heard. Presently she came to 
a little white cottage and knocking at the door, waited. 
The motherly old dame, who had nursed her in infancy, 
received her with open arms and with tears streaming 
down her wrinkled cheeks, listened to Nancy’s sad 
story. “Stay with me dear, please God, I will look 
after you.” 

Nancy pleaded that her husband should never know 
her whereabouts, and her old nurse promised that 
she would never disclose her hiding-place. 

Five months afterward, Nancy, Lady Bitterne 
passed away. 


I 


The Reverend Robert Stone, M.A., Oxon, Vicar 
of St. Martha's Episcopal Church, had just finished 
his breakfast, or to be more correct, the Reverend 
Robert had finished eating for the simple reason that it 
would be impossible for him to eat any more. The 
Reverend Mr. Stone was a portly gentleman just 
turned forty years of age, of medium height, head 
slightly bald, and face clean shaven. There were two 
things in life that the Reverend Mr. Stone never lost, 
his appetite and his temper. There is an old adage, 
that, “Feed a man and his temper departs.” If this 
be true, the Reverend Robert had chased away beyond 
all hopes of recovery, if not exactly a virtue, at least 
that one little ingredient which give men the fighting 
spirit. 

The father of Robert Stone had been a successful 
manufacturer of earthenware. Possessed of the one 
son, his wife being dead, he lost no time in giving him 
a tolerable education. Eton was followed by Oxford, 
and eventually graduating at the latter, found Robert 
in no way inclined to work. He loathed the business 
in which his father made a competent income, and 
not having enough energy to study for the bar, and 
certainly having no desire to serve his country, it 
would appear that Robert was doomed to a life of per¬ 
petual idleness, when unfortunately for him his 
father's business failed. 

After gathering together what few pounds there 
were left from the wreck of his business, his father 
insisted that his son take them and enter some profes- 
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sion where he could be self-supporting. All profes¬ 
sions being obnoxious to Robert, he stood a good 
chance of either having to beg or dig, when an old 
friend of the family persuaded him to try the Church. 
He did so and was eventually appointed to the curacy 
of some East End Parish. His father died shortly 
afterwards consoled with the thought that his son was 
provided for. 

For nearly a year the Reverend Robert lived after 
the manner of an East End Curate. He bitterly de¬ 
tested the poor, and regularly dodged a part, if not all, 
of his duties which necessitated his being brought into 
contact with his parishioners. All hope of ever ridding 
himself of his environments being dead, Robert once 
or twice thought seriously about borrowing money and 
going to the colonies, when chance knocked at his door. 

One named William Higgins, on a certain day some 
twenty years previously, had backed a winner. The 
winnings in this case amounting to nearly forty 
pounds. William first of all got exceedingly drunk; 
secondly he invested the remainder of his capital in a 
small public house. 

Now William was a good fellow, generous and open- 
handed, so it naturally followed that his Pub was 
well patronized. At the end of five years he had two 
public houses under his control. At the end of ten 
years he sold both and with the proceeds went into 
partnership with a local brewer, whose funds happened 
to be at low ebb at that particular time. Thanks to 
the energy displayed by William, the business grew so 
rapidly that in a few years, William, now Mr. Hig¬ 
gins, was a very wealthy man. 

In spite of his wealth, however, he still kept his own 
circle of friends who resided in that portion of Lon¬ 
don known as Bow. 


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15 


His wife, a buxom dame, with all the pomp and 
ceremony which characterizes the self-made rich, made 
repeated and divers calls on the friends of her youth. 
Her daughter Sarah, at this time nearly twenty years 
of age, invariably accompanied her mother on these 
periodical voyages into her youthful days. Not from 
any desire to make friends with the ladies of Bow, but 
rather to keep strict guard over her mother, who, if 
the truth may be told, was easily led to drinking more 
than was good for a lady of her age, and the con¬ 
vivial fellowship of these tea drinking visits was too 
often accompanied by a smell of gin. To do the old 
lady justice she was not a drunkard by any means, but 
was always afraid of giving offense by refusing to 
accept “just a little drop more.” 

One day Mrs. Higgins received a note to the effect 
that Betsy Smith, a life-long friend, was in trouble 
with her landlord, insomuch that the bailiff had taken 
possession of what little furniture she had, simply be¬ 
cause she was unable to pay her rent. On the receipt 
of this note, Mrs. Higgins, accompanied as usual by 
her charming daughter, drove down to the East End 
with the intention of assisting her friend. This act 
being accomplished to the perfect satisfaction of every 
one concerned, they were leaving the neighborhood 
when fate, having that day compelled the Reverend 
Robert to visit the aforesaid Betty Smith sorely against 
his inclinations, brought the fair Sarah and her 
mother face to face with this spiritual comforter. 

Now Robert had often heard people speak of this 
curious pair and inadvertently he had heard that Mr. 
Higgins was a millionaire and without waiting for an 
introduction, which of course from Mrs. Higgins* 
point of view was totally unnecessary, he made himself 


16 


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acquainted, and received a warm invitation to visit 
them at their home in Maida Vale. 

That night Robert resolved that come what may he 
would endeavor to win Sarah Higgins. A month 
afterwards he was the accepted husband of the brew¬ 
er's daughter. 

Sarah had no redeeming quality whatsoever. Her 
early training, combined with her acquaintances of 
Maida Vale, had made Sarah a vulgar snob, with only 
two objects in life; one, to enter real society; the other, 
love of scandal. Now she saw in Robert a way in 
which to meet on somewhat equal footing the class that 
so far refused to recognize her. Her father being 
delighted to get her off his hands, for truth to tell she 
was somewhat of a nuisance, gladly gave his consent, 
likewise a hundred thousand pounds. 

Mr. Higgins also discovered that money was sorely 
needed by the Bishop for some purpose or other, and 
openly called and offered to give the amount needed 
in return for a vicarship for his future son-in-law. 
The Bishop naturally was delighted to do any little 
favors for his dear brother; consequently on the day 
Robert promised to endow Sarah with all his worldly 
goods, he received the joyful news that he was ap¬ 
pointed to the living of St. Martha’s Church, the 
richest and the most aristocratic church in London. 

It seemed as though Sarah’s dream of shining in 
society’s circles was about to become realized. Sad 
to say it was only partly so. There were many members 
of the upper ten who still treated, with almost con¬ 
tempt, the efforts of Mrs. Stone to force herself on 
their lists. Her father and mother both dying shortly 
after her union with Robert, and leaving her every 
thing they possessed, which in addition to a half 
share in a brewery also consisted of half a million 


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17 


pounds sterling, society hastily concluded that dear 
Mrs. Stone was a person worth knowing. Henceforth 
Sarah wanted not for invitations, either in Park Lane 
or Country Mansions. 

As she sat facing her better half on the morning 
on which our story opens, she had just finished read¬ 
ing the letters which were always numerous, being 
chiefly invitations to some tea-drinking affair where 
scandal took the place of the biscuits, 

Robert Stone with a wave of his hand dismissed the 
footman, who had been wondering in his mind whether 
his master would die a natural death or burst. He 
used to say to the staff of menials who also resided 
in the edifice “ ’Ow’e puts away hall that grub 
without bursting beats me.” 

“I see, my dear,” said the worthy Vicar, “that Lord 
Bitterne is much worse this morning. The doctors 
have given up hope and a cablegram has been sent to 
the Honorable George asking him to return home im¬ 
mediately. 

“Dear me,” replied Mrs. Stone, “I shall be sorry to 
hear of the death of Lord Bitterne.” 

“Yes, yes, of course, of course, very worthy of 
you, my dear, we shall lose a very good friend to our 
congregation, but it is the Lord’s will, the Lord’s will. 
I wonder whether the son will take after his father,” 
said Robert musingly. 

“I am sure I hope so,” replied Mrs. Stone, in a voice 
that implied that she hoped not. “You see the Hon¬ 
orable George has been such a profligate these last few 
years. Lord Bitterne sent him out to America in hopes 
that he would turn over a new leaf, but the latest 
reports are not at all consoling. He was mixed up in 
that divorce in New York, and nearly got shot by one 
man who complained that he paid too much attention 


18 


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to his wife. His mother you know ran away with 
some Major when he was only three years of age. 
You may depend upon it he has his mother’s blood.” 

Mrs. Stone was now upon a topic in which her soul 
delighted, and no doubt would have added a few 
more choice items regarding the personal character 
of George, when an exclamation from her husband 
drew her attention. 

'‘What do you think my dear, of this letter? It is 
from young Bains, you remember, my dear, he was 
my colleague during my unfortunate residence in Bow. 
He says here that he is very unhappy on account of his 
income being so small and wonders if I would use my 
influence with the Bishop to get him appointed to some 
church where the stipend would be larger. Why I 
never heard of such a presumption in my life, never! 
The poor must have clergymen to attend to their 
spiritual needs and I am sure he is getting more than 
enough to enable him to live in comfort. Only last 
year his salary was increased by twenty pounds. He 
must be receiving over a hundred and fifty pounds a 
year. Dear me, how sad it is when we worship 
Baal.” 

Unconsciously Robert was quite right. It is very 
sad to worship the God of Baal when the said God 
proves to be of no more value than a hundred and 
fifty pounds a year. Now if it had been a hundred 
and fifty thousand pounds Robert Stone might have 
forgiven his unfortunate brother. 

“Well,” said Mrs. Stone with a disdainful toss of 
her head, “don’t bother answering. If he is dissatis¬ 
fied with his pay let him try something else. By the 
way, Robert, have you yet decided who is to be 
Junior Curate at St. Martha’s?” 

St. Martha’s had just lost one of its curates through 


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ill health, and Mr. Stone was now seeking a suitable 
successor to complete his staff. 

“Yes, yes, of course my dear. I intended telling you 
the news last night but it escaped my memory. I 
think I have been successful in obtaining John Keen, 
whose uncle, Sir Richard, is our neighbor in Hamp¬ 
shire. Sir Richard spoke to me yesterday at the club. 
The Bishop will, no doubt, be delighted to allow him to 
come under my charge.” 

“Has he had much experience?” asked Mrs. Stone. 

“No, my dear, I am afraid not very much. You see 
the month he was ordained the war broke out and he 
went over to France as a Chaplain with the Wiltshires; 
he stayed right through the war, so you see, my dear, 
he has no experience of parish work, but I trust that in 
a very short time we shall be able to make him a 
tower of strength to our church.” 

Mrs. Stone was pleased to think that John Keen had 
such a distinguished relative, which, she said, would 
give a decided tone to the atmosphere of St. Martha’s. 
What she really meant her husband was somewhat at 
a loss to understand, but as he was too well fed to 
argue or ask questions of his wife, he emphatically 
agreed that it would indeed. 

“Now, my dear, I am afraid that I shall not be in 
to lunch. I have an appointment at the club at eleven, 
and from there I am to lunch with the Bishop and 
finally settle the arrangements regarding John Keen. 
If you would care for a little relaxation this evening 
I will take seats at the Queens Hall. Kayloff, that 
marvelous baritone, has taken the town by storm.” 

“Yes, I really think that I should like to go, for 
I have a busy day before me,” said Mrs. Stone. 

The busy day for Mrs. Stone consisted of a visit to 
her dressmaker at twelve, afterwards lunch with some 


20 


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friends at Hampstead, followed by a strenuous after¬ 
noon at bridge. 

The Reverend Robert, kissing his dutiful wife, lit¬ 
erally waddled to his car, a superb Rolls Royce, and 
was rapidly driven to his club. 


II 


Even the very buildings of New York City seemed 
to be perspiring. Countless throngs lazily wended 
their way hither and thither, the male section for the 
most part were hatless and coatless, while the weaker 
sex openly defied the law. The day had been one of 
the hottest known for many years, and although it 
was not yet July, the casual traveler could easily 
imagine himself in some tropical city. 

The cafes with which Broadway is so plentifully 
stocked, notwithstanding the great heat, seemed to be 
doing plenty of business. They were brilliantly illum¬ 
inated and the sound of music issued through the open 
windows, and in some cases the popping of corks, for 
in spite of prohibition one was still able to purchase 
a fairly good bottle of wine although the prices were 
outrageous; but to the thirsty mortal a drink seemed 
to be the cheapest thing to buy. 

Youngsteins was particularly busy. It boasted of 
one of the finest and most elaborate dance halls in 
New York, if not in the whole of America. The hall 
was cooled by a special arrangement of electric fans, 
which enabled its many and varied patrons to enjoy 
their favorite pastime even in the warmest weather. 
Leading off from the dancing space was a spacious 
conservatory plentifully stocked with palms, and taste¬ 
fully arrayed with bowers, where couples could con¬ 
verse or make love without being seen. 

The orchestra had just finished playing a popular 
waltz, and a young couple made their way into the 
conservatory. The man was a well-built, clean-cut 
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type of about twenty-five years of age, nicely dressed, 
with an air of distinction. He was the sort of man 
that commanded attention, and one could easily guess 
that he would have no trouble in finding a dancing 
partner. One thing, however, was noticeable, and 
that was a weak mouth combined with an air of weari¬ 
ness. This was not to be wondered at, for since the 
Honorable George Langley, only son of Lord Bitterne, 
had landed in New York scarcely two months before, 
he had been going the pace with a vengeance. His 
liberality combined with his good looks and cheerful 
disposition had made him a persona grata, not only in 
society circles, but more so in the community which 
generally existed around the various places of amuse¬ 
ment. 

George, or Georgie, as he had become more 
familiarly called, had obtained distinction in every cafe 
on Broadway. His fame had even extended to the 
distant Bowery, where he had on several occasions 
spent evenings, not to mention dollars. Youngsters' 
held the record however, and in consequence a gaily 
dressed crowd was nearly always in attendance. 

At the outbreak of the war George had immediately 
entered the Navy where he speedily gained the good 
will of his shipmates. He was cool and daring in the 
face of danger, and had several times been mentioned 
for meritorious conduct. His failing was obvious— 
love of women's society. On one occasion he swam 
ashore from his ship, a distance of nearly a mile, with 
the glass almost down to freezing point, in order to 
keep tryst with a bar-maid whom he had met the 
evening before and rashly promised to see again the 
following night, knowing full well that it was his watch 
on duty. Thanks to the rule among brother officers to 
stand by each other, he escaped being punished. 


SIN 


23 


During the battle of Jutland, George received a 
wound in the head which seriously affected his eye¬ 
sight. He was invalided from the service, and after a 
few months’ rest he became entangled in some love 
affair with a pretty little chorus girl which threatened 
to end in marriage. Lord Bitterne hastily sent him 
over to New York on business of his own, in hopes 
that his son would get over his infatuation and George, 
being somewhat uncertain himself whether he loved 
little Mary Richards, the chorus girl, or not, decided 
to take the trip. His father made him a most liberal 
allowance and George had found no difficulty in spend¬ 
ing it. 

Two weeks after he landed in New York he was 
mixed up in a divorce scandal. It is only fair to add 
that George in this case was not entirely guilty. The 
lady in question had purposely used him for her own 
ends. There had been a mutual understanding between 
the lady and her husband that a divorce had become 
necessary, and the lady intended to add if possible an 
air of distinction to the divorce proceedings. 

As George entered the conservatory he dropped 
wearily into a chair, while his partner with a tired 
yawn sat in his lap. She was one of those girls who 
appear to make a living and yet escape paying the 
price. George was too generous to refuse any de¬ 
mand from the fair sex, especially if they were gifted 
with any looks worth speaking about; consequently he 
was a veritable gold mine to girls of this class. He 
appeared to be too tired this evening, at any rate, to 
pay very much attention to the charming damsel who 
sought to please him. After a few coaxing words 
from his little girl friend, he gave her what she desired, 
the price of a new gown or something that she intended 
to buy. Hastily slipping the roll of bills inside of her 


24 


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dress she implanted a kiss on his cheek and gaily flitted 
away. 

Now in spite of his failings George had one good 
friend by the name of Steven Hargraves. Steven had 
acted as war correspondent for an influential New 
York Daily. A shell had exploded a little bit too near 
at the time he was writing an article for his paper, and 
Steven had lost his right arm. On arriving back in 
New York the newspaper Company gave him a pension 
of three hundred dollars a month. Although the loss 
of his arm was a serious blow to him, he resolved to 
practice with his left hand until he was proficient, and 
then once again take up his old profession of journal¬ 
ism. Steven, to look at, was just an ordinary, everyday 
sort of person with a very dry expression which made 
one naturally think that he was ill-tempered. His 
looks belied his nature, for he was a typical American 
gentleman; the soul of honor and chivalry, incapable 
of deceit. He had met George on board the ship 
that brought them over, and a friendship had sprung 
up between them that was real. 

Steven was allowing his friend to have as much 
rope as possible in the hope that he would speedily 
grow sick of the unhealthy dissipated life in which the 
revellers of Broadway indulge. Nevertheless, he kept 
a strict watch over the harpies that invariably infest 
these so-called houses of joy, and had rescued his 
friend on more than one occasion from what might 
have been an unpleasant situation. He had been watch¬ 
ing George the best part of the evening, and after 
making a guess that George had parted with more 
good money he came to the conclusion that it was time 
to go. He accordingly arose and seeking his friend 
together they left the house. 

The air outside seemed hotter if anything than it 


SIN 


25 


was when they entered Youngsteins’ and they idly 
sauntered towards their hotel. George had taken a 
small suite of rooms in a very good hotel and had per¬ 
suaded Steven to share them with him. Steven noth¬ 
ing loth and cognizant of the fact that this arrange¬ 
ment would enable him to keep an eye on George will¬ 
ingly consented. 

They reached their rooms as the clock was strik¬ 
ing one A. M. and immediately proceeded to undress; 
then, clad only in their pajamas, they put out the lights 
and entered the living room, where a small screen- 
covered balcony proved such a blessing on these warm 
evenings. 

Steven had pressed his friend to retire but George 
was adamant and insisted on having his good-night 
smoke as usual. 

"If I were you, old chap,” said Steven, “I should 
certainly ease up on the girlie stuff. Why my dear 
George, as long as there is a dollar to be squeezed out 
of you they will cling like ivy to the old church wall.” 

George smiled, “My dear Steven, do you suppose 
for one instant that I am not fully aware of the fact? 
Why bless me, it is just my nature to seek the society 
of the feminine gender and I can assure you that I 
always play the game.” 

“Yes, George, I quite believe that; otherwise, I am 
afraid that your humble friend would not stick around 
quite so much; but say, have you never had any serious 
thoughts as regards women ? I mean were you ever in 
love? You must excuse me if I touch on a delicate 
subject for I certainly do not want to pry into your 
family history as it were, but I have often wondered 
about it.” 

George lazily blew a puff of smoke into the air be¬ 
fore he replied. 


26 


SIN 


“Steven, I am ashamed to say that I do not quite 
know myself whether I have ever been in love or not. 
You know my pater sent me out here for the simple 
reason that I wanted to marry a little chorus girl whom 
I met in London. She had no pedigree and of course 
the old chap was furious. I honestly thought at the 
time that I really loved this girl, Mary Richards, and 
there are times when I feel sorry that I did not 
marry her. God knows that she was far above me, 
whatever her social station may have been. I asked 
her to wait twelve months, to satisfy the Pater, and 
damn it all, Steven, she actually released me from 
my promise to marry her on the grounds that I had 
made a mistake, and gave me the same stupid reasons 
that my father had advanced, no “locus standi” in 
society and so on. I sometimes wish that I had been 
born a navvy, or at least without the prospects of com¬ 
ing into the peerage. Some day perhaps I may marry 
Mary after all,” said George musingly, “but tell me 
Steven, how about yourself? You certainly do not 
seem to have the least desire for the company of 
women. Weren’t you ever in love? 

“Yes,” replied Steven, “I was once in love.” 

“Did she love you, Steven?” 

“Yes,” said Steven, “she loved me.” 

“Then why in God’s name didn’t you marry her?” 

“I did,” replied Steven, and here his voice became 
very gentle, “God needed her more than I did; she 
died, old man.” 

George reached across and silently gripped his friend 
by the hand. No other word was spoken until they 
arose to turn in when, bidding each other goodnight, 
they sought their respective couches. 

George was strangely moved over Steven’s story and 
for a long time he lay and wondered whether he could 


SIN 


27 


ever love Mary Richards as Steven had evidently loved 
his lost wife. Then his thoughts wandered to his 
mother, the mother that he could not remember. His 
father had told him that she died when he was three 
years of age, but he had heard other stories that made 
his heart ache. His father was a very cold man, per¬ 
haps he had treated his mother unjustly. Here George 
clenched his hands when he thought that perhaps his 
mother was alive even now. He was very tired and 
after a while fell asleep and dreamed of a sweet faced 
lady who called him her son. 

The sun had risen a good many hours before he 
awoke. Steven was already up and dressed, and was 
patiently waiting for his friend. Steven never cared 
to awaken George after a tiring night, but always let 
him have his sleep out. It did not take George very 
long to perform his oblutions, and in a short time they 
sat down to breakfast. 

“I may take it then for granted, Steven,” said 
George, “that when I return to England you will 
come with me?” 

“Yes,” replied Steven, “I should very much like 
to spend a few months over there; that is of course, if 
I shall not be in the way.” 

“My dear boy, I value your friendship more than 
I can say. You have been my mainstay ever since I 
have been in your country. I shall never forget that 
night in the Bowery when you rescued me from almost 
certain death. Nothing in the world will give me 
more pleasure than to have you as my guest, and I am 
delighted to think that you will cross the pond with 
me. Well! well! this will never do, I promised to 
meet Kitty Lambert at eleven-thirty. Coming my way, 
Steven?” 

Steven had to see a journalistic friend, and as he 


28 


SIN 


lived in the neighborhood for which George was bound, 
together they descended to the lobby. 

Steven stopped at the desk to give some directions to 
the clerk when he heard his name mentioned and turn¬ 
ing around came face to face with an elderly lady. 

“Land sakes alive if it ain’t Steve. How are you, 
Steve?” 

Steven’s eyes shone with pleasure as apologizing 
for his left hand he heartily seized her own out¬ 
stretched one. 

“Why! Mrs. Cochrane, whatever are you doing in 
New York? Let me introduce you to my friend, the 
Honorable George Langley. This is Mrs. Cochrane, 
George, whom I have known for nearly twenty years.” 

“Real pleased to meet you Honorable. Gee! I have 
always hankered to meet a real swell. How do you 
do sir?” 

George, without showing the least embarrassment 
cordially shook her hand. 

“Mrs. Cochrane knew me as a little boy, George,” 
explained Steven. “My father used to send me to her 
farm every summer. Now, Mrs. Cochrane, tell me 
what are you doing in New York and where is Mr. 
Cochrane?” he added. 

“Why, Steve, poor Sam died nearly two years ago.” 

Steven hastily apologized and expressed his heartfelt 
sympathy. 

“Yes,” Mrs. Cochrane continued, “me and Sam made 
up our minds two years ago that one day we should 
take a trip to Europe, and just when we were about to 
start Sam caught the flu and died, poor dear. His 
last words to me was, ‘Martha, I guess you’ll have to 
take that trip alone, I sure want you to go, promise 
me you will.’ I promised him I would and here I am 
going to cross the water tomorrow in the Ryland. I feel 


SIN 


29 


that lonely, you wouldn’t believe; every time a street 
car whizzes by I am scared to death. Why, Steven, I 
never knew there were so many people in the world. 
If I hadn’t promised Sam, I sure would go right back 
to Texas. Of course you heard about the ranch, 
Steve, didn’t you?” 

Steven replied in the negative and Mrs. Cochrane 
informed him of how oil had been found in tremendous 
quantities, and how a syndicate had purchased the 
ranch for three million dollars. 

“It is so much money, Steve, that I don’t know 
what to do with it. Why me and Sam worked so 
hard all these years and all we could save was nine 
thousand dollars. It don’t seem right to me somehow 
that we should have to work so hard to save a few 
dollars and then get all that money for nothing.” 

It appeared to be a great mystery to Mrs. Cochrane 
and no doubt she would have tried to explain it better 
to Steven when the bell-boy touched George on the 
shoulder. 

“Telegram for you, sir.” 

George tore open the missive and read, “Come home 
at once, father dying.” 

George turned very faint as the telegram slowly 
fluttered to the ground. 

Steven rescued it and seeing his friend’s plight, read 
it. He then quietly led George to a chair and after 
seeing him seated, returned to Mrs. Cochrane. 

“Please excuse me now, Mrs. Cochrane, I shall 
see you tomorrow. My friend and I are crossing on 
the Ryland.” 


Ill 


The house in which resided the Reverend Mr. 
Robert Stone was situated in Regents Park. It 
was one of those dingy looking edifices which 
seemed to have absorbed the fog of bygone gen¬ 
erations. Being a typical London residence how¬ 
ever and not withstanding the outward appear¬ 
ance its interior was well arranged. It was fur¬ 
nished according to the ideas of its mistress, which 
in this case meant as much elaborate furniture as 
could possibly be placed in the commodious 
rooms. What Mrs. Stone termed her boudoir 
would have been the envy of every coster-monger 
in London. The only room which bore any 
appearance of taste was that which Mr. Stone 
called his study. Here one could recognize a 
certain amount of refinement due, no doubt, to his 
sojourn at Oxford. 

It was the fifth of July and Robert Stone 
noted with satisfaction that the day promised to 
be a fine one. He had been asked to conduct the 
funeral service for the late Lord Bitterne who 
had passed away a few days previously. This 
was the first occasion where he had been called 
upon to perform this service over one so high in 
society, and an air of self-importance seemed to 
pervade his portly being as he reclined, somewhat 
like an over-fed bear, in his easy chair. 

He was expecting a call from his new curate, 
John Keen. His other colleagues were also due 
as the Reverend Robert intended that his staff 
30 


SIN 


31 


should be prominent that afternoon at the grave¬ 
side. It would naturally give an air of distinction 
to the service, and they were to call for some 
final instructions that morning. 

John Keen was the first to arrive and was 
immediately shown to the study. 

“My dear boy, welcome to my charge,” said 
Stone, rising to his feet. “I am delighted to 
think that the nephew of such an old neighbor is 
to be directly under my care, and I am sure,” 
added the vicar, “that your life has fallen in very 
pleasant places.” 

John Keen shook hands warmly and expressed 
thanks for the kindly welcome of his Vicar. John 
was a splendid type of manhood. He was clean¬ 
shaven, about twenty-eight years of age, and had 
a kind and gentle expression. He loved humanity 
especially the poor and needy and looked forward 
to coming in contact with many such. He had 
spent four years in France as chaplain to the 
Wiltshire regiment and had seen things which 
had brought him very near to his Maker. He 
was delighted to receive an appointment so soon, 
and although he would have far rather chosen an 
East End parish, he realized that there were 
many poor in the diocese of St. Martha’s and 
resolved speedily to become acquainted with them. 

The vicar engaged John in conversation re¬ 
specting his illustrious relative, and had just 
mentioned the death of Lord Bitterne when his 
other two curates were announced. 

“Now,” said the Vicar, “I wish to introduce 
to you gentlemen your new colleague, John 
Keen.” 

John, with his usual warm smile, greeted the 


32 


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new arrivals with a friendly handshake. The 
first to be introduced to John was Frank Grey- 
marsh who had been in the same house with him 
at Cambridge. The other curate, Richard Morse, 
John had not met before. 

Richard Morse, or, as he was called by his 
friends, Dicky, was only a curate at St. Martha’s 
pro tern. During an emergency the Reverend 
Robert had been obliged to make a call for help 
and Dicky was the result. Dicky was a frail, 
narrow-chested little man who wore a perpetual 
air of amazement. He appeared amazed at meet¬ 
ing John Keen and still more amazed when John 
offered his hand. One could almost fancy Dicky 
waking with amazement as though he had just 
come into the world and retiring with the same 
bewildered air. Dicky would not have remained 
longer than a week with the vicar under ordinary 
circumstances had not the congregation made a 
startling discovery, to wit: that Dicky Morse 
knew more about botany and archaeology than all 
the professors in Europe. In this first sermon at 
St. Martha’s he had drifted from ancient build¬ 
ings in Jerusalem to old historic castles in Eng¬ 
land and his eloquence had made the congrega¬ 
tion gasp with astonishment. 

As the audience of St. Martha’s consisted prin¬ 
cipally of families who dwelt in old mansions, 
Dicky made a decided hit and his superior was 
warmly congratulated on having found such a 
wonderful little man. A few weeks later Dicky 
made his second hit of the season. His text had 
been “Consider the Lilies of the Field,” and he 
had wound up with a treatise on orchids that 
made one old Earl swear that he would give a 


SIN 


33 


thousand pounds a year if Dicky would only 
come down to his estate and manage his collec¬ 
tion of valuable plants; and Dicky was literally 
flooded with invitations to visit various country 
estates and give his opinion on flowers. 

Dicky, as always, was overwhelmed with 
amazement and wondered what he had said that 
had made him so popular. Again the vicar re¬ 
ceived congratulations on his choice of a curate; 
but to him came a distinct feeling of jealousy, 
inasmuch that such a poor, undersized specimen 
of manhood should receive unbounded praise, 
while he, the Reverend Robert Stone, was hardly 
ever congratulated. 

The truth of the matter was that he preached 
sermons that were unintelligible, not only to his 
congregation, but also to himself. His sermons 
were always based on the surety that God loved 
the rich and blessed them, but hated the poor 
because they lived in filth and squalor and con¬ 
stantly got drunk, and sad to say, with the ex¬ 
ception of a few, his congregation seemed very 
well pleased with his diagnosis of sin in general. 

Dicky Morse was a most generous little fellow, 
a source of income to many an old stager. Two 
crossing-sweepers and a lady flower-seller were 
kept well supplied with beer on the money they 
regularly obtained from Dicky on the grounds 
of poverty and a very earnest desire to lead a 
new life. 

John Keen was quick to read men, and he readily 
recognized in Dicky a man with a heart almost 
as large as his body. After the introduction had 
been satisfactorily performed, the vicar proceeded 
to give his curates instructions for the afternoon. 


34 


SIN 


“Of course, my dear colleagues, you under¬ 
stand that this is no ordinary funeral service. 
His Lordship was a great man, I may say a 
good man, and England has lost a splendid 
politician. I have been asked by my Lord Bishop 
to perform the usual rites. I desire you all to 
be present and assist more or less in the cere¬ 
mony,” said the vicar. John Keen was to read 
a portion of scripture, Frank Greymarsh to offer 
a prayer. 

The air of self-importance with which he gave 
his instructions made John Keen feel just a little 
bit disgusted. He, John, had said simple prayers 
over thousands of graves out there in France; 
there had been no crowd of notables, no one to 
send flowers, just a hole in the ground, a few 
simple words and the earth had hidden from 
view the bodies of brave lads—sons, husbands and 
sweethearts. 

The vicar dismissed his staff, first of all extend¬ 
ing a hearty invitation to John Keen to stay to 
lunch. John, however, refused as he had to 
arrange about some place of abode. Dicky Morse 
said good-bye at the gate as he was going in the 
opposite direction, so John and Frank Grey¬ 
marsh were left together. 

“Well, my dear old chap,” said Frank, “I really 
am delighted to see you again. It brings back 
very vividly memories of the Cambridge days. 
I should be so glad if you will dine with me this 
evening and chat over old times.” 

John expressed his pleasure of seeing Frank 
that evening and readily accepted the invitation 
of his old college chum. They then parted, John 


SIN 


35 


to search for rooms, and Frank to wander at his 
leisure towards his home. 

John decided to forego the underground rail¬ 
way and walk across the park towards Kensing¬ 
ton, the neighborhood in which he desired to get 
lodgings. The day was really so pleasant he 
thought, that it seemed almost a sin to shut one’s 
self underground, when health and strength gave 
a person the opportunity to walk. John had just 
entered Hyde Park when his attention was drawn 
to a girl seated under some trees. Her figure 
seemed so familiar that he walked slowly by and 
gave a half glance in her direction, and then 
raising his hat made way to her side. 

“My dear Miss Hinton, I am more than de¬ 
lighted at seeing you again.” 

Margaret Hinton gave him her hand with a 
welcoming smile. They had been very old friends 
in France where Margaret had given her services 
gratis, and many a soldier boy had listened to her 
pretty voice as she had sung them songs of 
sweet memories. Margaret was a professional 
singer and earned a livelihood by singing at 
drawing-room functions, and at this particular 
time was in her zenith. She was practically en¬ 
gaged up to Christmas at a figure that would 
be the envy of her colleagues. 

Chatting over the days in France made the 
time pass so quickly that John was astounded 
to find that it was almost midday and remember¬ 
ing that he had to be present at the funeral that 
afternoon he begged to be excused. Margaret 
again shook hands warmly with John, and 
watched him as he hastily made his way across 
the park. There was a very happy little smile 


36 


SIN 


on her face. Margaret had seen a good deal of 
him in France and she had hoped that some 
day he would ask her to marry him. She realized 
that John liked her immensely and prayed that 
the day she longed for would soon come; but 
that day seemed a long way off for she knew 
that John would never open his lips on the sub¬ 
ject dearest to her heart until he had made good 
in his profession; and that was not so easy, for 
in spite of the fact that John was nephew to a 
Baronet, he had no expectations. In fact, as 
Margaret knew only too well, John had only his 
stipend, and the pay of an English Curate is 
barely sufficient to buy the common necessities 
of life. 

Margaret herself was an orphan brought up by 
some friends of her mother, who had died giving 
her birth. At the age of eighteen Margaret dis¬ 
covered that she could sing, and it was not very 
long before others found out the same thing. 
Lady Wandemere of the village where Margaret 
lived invited her to sing at a garden festival, and 
Margaret had won a storm of applause. Lady 
Wandemere immediately came to the conclusion 
that Margaret should be trained and had her sent 
to London where she soon became such a sweet 
singer that her services were greatly in demand. 
At the outbreak of the war, Margaret, like many 
other noble women, gladly spent her time singing 
to the troops. On her return to London she was 
heartily welcomed back in her profession and 
found no lack of engagements. 

Margaret was just an ordinary type of English 
girl, about five feet six inches in height, with 
medium brown hair. She had grey eyes which, 


SIN 


37 


when you came to look at her closely spoke very 
plainly of her sweet nature. Margaret looked her 
best, however, when she smiled. She had one 
of the sweetest smiles in the world, and by nature 
she was shy and retiring, gentle and unselfish. 
She had an apartment in Kensington and lived 
there in company with a gentlewoman who had 
fallen on hard times and was only too glad to eke 
out a respectable livelihood by acting as chaperon 
to Miss Hinton. 

When John left Margaret he made his way 
to an address he had seen in the morning paper 
advertising furnished apartments. It fortunately 
happened that the rooms in question just suited 
John and he immediately engaged them indefi¬ 
nitely and telephoned to the station for his bag¬ 
gage to be sent on at once. He then proceeded 
to find a restaurant and having lunched, he return¬ 
ed to his rooms. 

His luggage having arrived he put together 
his surplice and cassock and set out for St. 
Martha’s where the first part of the funeral 
service was to be held. 

John had known George, now Lord Bitterne, 
for they had been chums together at Cambridge, 
and he felt very sorry for the ordeal that George 
would presently undergo. 

St. Martha’s of course was crowded. Society 
came just as readily to a funeral as they would to 
a wedding. Not that they cared whether death had 
deprived a son of a father. It simply happend to 
be fashionable—that was all. They would see their 
names in the paper the next morning and as every¬ 
body knows, society simply must be brought into 
the lime light; else what would be the use of 


38 


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spending money on dress, balls, and parties, if the 
world were kept in ignorance of the fact. So an 
occasion of this sort was as welcome as the 
flowers in May. 

John met Frank and Dicky in the. vestry. 
Frank had a look of indifference on his face which 
upset John a little, for Frank had known George 
at Cambridge and as far as he knew they had been 
fairly good friends. Later on John knew that it 
was not indifference or lack of sympathy with 
George that Frank seemed so bored. As for little 
Dicky, he seemed so amazed at being there at 
all that John almost smiled. 

The vicar now made his appearance and after 
asking the usual blessing, they filed into the 
church. 


IV 


The funeral of Lord Bitterne was over and 
the intimate friends of the family were assembled 
in the library of his home in Park Lane anxiously 
watching the fussy little gentleman at the end of 
the table. At his right was seated the new Lord 
Bitterne who with the remainder present would 
hear the family solicitor read the late Lord Bit- 
terne’s will. Mr. Rider, of Rider and Puppet, 
now rose to his feet and proceeded to break the 
seal. 

“Your Lordship, ladies and gentlemen, this is 
the last will and testament of Edward Henry 
Langley, Baron of Bitterne, situated in the county 
of Hants. This will is dated June twenty-eighth, 
just two days before his Lordship passed away. 
I will now proceed to read it to you.” 

He read it through slowly. With the exception 
of a few bequests to various charitable organiza¬ 
tions, the whole of the estate was to be divided 
equally between his faithful, loving and cruelly 
treated wife, Nancy, Lady Bitterne, and his 
affectionate son, George. 

Lord Bitterne sprang to his feet with a cry of 
pain. “For God’s sake, Mr. Rider, tell me where 
is my mother? Is this all a joke? Why, my 
father told me she was dead. What does it all 
mean ?” 

Mr. Rider gently forced George into his chair. 
“I have a letter for you, my Lord, which your 
father dictated at the time he signed his will. I 
39 


40 


SIN 


herewith hand it to you to peruse at your leisure. 
I am sorry to say that I am afraid it will cause 
you pain but I earnestly trust that you will 
endeavor to carry out the wishes you will find 
expressed in this letter.” Then placing a hand 
gently on the boy’s shoulder he said, “I have 
known you since you were born and if I can be 
of any assistance in helping you carry out your 
intentions, I shall be very happy to do so, then 
bidding goodbye to the company present, he left 
the house. 

Still clasping the letter he had received from 
Mr. Rider, Lord Bitterne quietly thanked those 
present in the name of his father for their kindly 
sympathy and begging to be excused he left the 
room. When he had left, tongues were speedily 
loosened and a murmur of surprise was heard on 
every side. Gratification, too, showed itself, for 
this will they had just heard read would supply 
the demand for sensation for some days to come. 

Lord Bitterne went direct to his room and 
sitting down at his desk proceeded to open and 
read his father’s letter. 

My dear Son: 

I have not been all that a father might have been 
to you, but I tried to do my best and bring you up to 
face the world with a clean record. I will not reproach 
you now for your misdeeds except to say that I am 
extremely thankful you have made no serious mis¬ 
takes. With my farewell, I bid you for the sake of 
your dear Mother, try always to play the game. 

My son, I made a mistake when you were only 
three years of age, and how bitterly I have regretted 
it only God knows. In a fit of mad jealousy and 
temper I accused your sweet sainted Mother of a 
crime to which her nature was entirely foreign, and 


SIN 


41 


drove her forth into the streets to live or die. God 
forgive me, my son, and I pray that as the years 
roll by you too may forgive me. 

Find your Mother and try to make her life happy 
and bright. She was as true and as pure as anyone 
could possibly be. 

Then followed a short description of the fateful 
night. 

Lord Bitterne was now sobbing like a child. 
His mother, his own dear mother! Find her? 
Yes, he would find her if she were still alive. 
As for his father, George at that moment hated 
him. He paced restlessly up and down his room 
filled with a bitter remorse. If only he had known 
before. How he had longed to feel a mother’s 
arms around his neck; how different life would 
have been, but now he would find her—and then 
a clean straight life for him. Little did he know 
of his own weakness. 

John had promised to dine with Frank Grey- 
marsh that evening, and at the appointed time he 
made his way to Portland Place where Frank had 
an apartment. John was very warmly welcomed 
by his old friend and they sat down to a splendid 
dinner. After dinner they retired to the study 
and seated themselves in two very comfortable 
chairs, Frank lit a cigar while John proceeded to 
fill a much-worn briar pipe. John was astonished 
at the luxuriousness of Frank’s apartment until 
he remembered that Frank himself had an income 
of nearly two thousand pounds a year. 

“Well,” said Frank, “what do you think of our 
vicar?” 

“I am afraid,” replied John, smiling, “that it 


42 


SIN 


would be almost impossible for me to pass an 
opinion on such a short acquaintance.” 

“True, I forgot that you have only just arrived,” 
said Frank, “but my dear John, if you intend to 
live a life following after the teaching of Christ, 
leave St. Martha’s at once.” 

John slowly placed his pipe in the ash tray and 
gazed at Frank in astonishment. “Leave St. 
Martha’s,” said John, “why do you think I wear 
the cloth? For amusement?” 

“No,” said Frank, “I know you, my dear chap. 
You see—you were called, I was chosen. In other 
words, you are a minister of the Gospel because 
you intend trying to serve Christ according to 
His teachings. I am here simply and solely for 
the reason that my pater insisted that I should 
don the cloth. I never cared a two-penny hang 
about the Church. As far as I am concerned, 
I do not mind if I never enter another church in 
my life except to get married or buried.” 

John arose to his feet with a cry of amazement. 
“Why Frank, do you mean to tell me that you 
have simply taken up the work of God as a 
pastime?” 

“No,” replied Frank, “thank God for that. I 
honour God, John, almost as much as you do, 
but I have seen so much hypocrisy and heard so 
much cant under cover of the so-called Church, 
that I am ashamed and disgusted. Take Stone, 
for instance, a pecksniffian, swinish old hypocrite 
of the first degree. Wait just one month if you 
will, and at the end of that time if I am still with 
you come and candidly tell me what you think, 
first of our cloth and then of the parasites which 
inhabit God’s temple Sunday after Sunday. I 


SIN 


43 


never wanted to enter the Church as I have 
already told you. Father, however, insisted and 
to please the dear old chap whom I love very 
dearly, I consented. Personally I want to be a 
mining engineer. My father has many interests 
out there in America. That is where I want to 
go, John, to live in the open, breathing fresh air 
not stifled in the drawing rooms of a lot of use¬ 
less humanity. Father is getting old now and he 
is fretting about his property in America. Mother, 
of course, is on my side and she has hinted very 
plainly that father may write and ask me to sus¬ 
pend my church work temporarily and cross the 
Atlantic for him. That means finis, my dear John, 
as far as the cloth is concerned. Listen, John, 
you knew Hatton at Cambridge, you remember 
what a licentious brute he was? Today he is in 
the Church. You knew Thorday, Marcus, Dedgy, 
More? All in the Church my dear fellow, and Sun¬ 
day after Sunday they preach Christ or at least 
a semblance of Christ, while the rest of the week 
they live almost as sinfully as they did at Cam¬ 
bridge. Do you know why? Simply because 
they found that they were useless in any other 
station of life; so to live they took orders. 

Poor John seemed dumbfounded. “Why, Frank 
dear boy, I can hardly believe so ill of the Church 
as that. Even take it for granted that some are 
living under false colors, surely you will not con¬ 
demn the whole.” 

“My dear John, if all men were as godly as you, 
there would be very little sin in the world,” said 
Frank. “You, John, were called and gladly 
answered that call to devote your life to the 
service of humanity. I have not spoken like this 


44 


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to discourage you, John, but because I should like 
to think that you were starting your work here 
without a handicap. Well, let us change the 
subject; only bear in mind, John, what I have 
said/’ 

“It is awfully good of you to advise,” replied 
John, “and I surely appreciate your kindly 
thoughts towards me, and I will earnestly pray 
that you have been mistaken in your views. By 
the way Frank, I can’t help thinking what a pity 
it is that Lord Bitterne made so many bad slips 
at college. His face today struck me as being 
particularly sad and wistful. I am sure that there 
is a lot of good in him somewhere.” 

“Maybe,” said Frank, “and if there is, I hope 
that you will find it. I like Bitterne very much. 
Apart from his mad infatuation for doubtful 
women I really don’t think that there is a great 
deal of harm in him. Look him up sometimes, 
John, he has missed what you and I will always 
treasure, a mother’s love. You know the story, 
don’t you?” 

John bowed in answer. 

“Did you know, John, why his father sent him 
out to America?” 

“No,” said John, “I was away from London at 
the time.” 

“Here are the facts,” said Frank; “George fell 
madly in love, or appeared to do so, with a 
very pretty little chorus girl by the name of 
Mary Richards, and I want to say that Miss 
Richards is as pure as she is pretty. Of course I 
believe George really cared for her, but in defer¬ 
ence to his father’s wishes, he took the trip to 
America. Miss Richards refused to consider herself 


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45 


bound to him in any shape or form; in fact I hon¬ 
estly believe that although she thought a great 
deal of George she realized that her social position 
was a handicap, don’t you know, and out of con¬ 
sideration for him practically broke off their 
friendship. Within these last few months, how¬ 
ever, Miss Richards has suddenly gone to the 
top of her profession and is now leading lady at 
the Gaiety and you will find her being well re¬ 
ceived everywhere.” 

“Then,” said John, “let us hope that Bitterne 
will prove himself worthy of such a good woman. 
I shall certainly look him up and I trust that he 
will yet vindicate his character. It has not been 
very nice looking, as you say, but I never judge 
a man, Frank, if I can possibly help it. I realize 
my own deficiencies only too well.” 

The hour being fairly late they parted with a 
cordial handshake and many expressions of thanks 
from John for his delightful welcome. John did 
not see Frank again for some months, for the 
next morning Frank’s dearest wish came true. 
He was asked by his father to go out to America, 
and that meant for Frank, goodbye forever, to 
the Church. 


V 


John Keen walked home thinking deeply over all 
Frank had told him. To him, John, it seemed almost 
incredible that the Church of Christ was being used 
just for the sake of a livelihood. He earnestly hoped 
that Frank was mistaken. John loved the Church and 
all that it stood for, and his heart felt very heavy when 
he thought of the possibility of corruption laying low 
his idol. 

John’s optimism, however, as usual, helped to banish 
all sad thoughts, and he was feeling almost cheerful 
again by the time he reached Kensington. It was past 
midnight, nevertheless autos still rolled merrily by. 

A taxi passed by just before he reached his apart¬ 
ment house and a young girl sprang out, and then pro¬ 
ceeded to assist her companion, a somewhat elderly 
female; in coming up to them, to John’s astonishment 
and delight, he recognized in the young lady, Miss 
Hinton. Their recognition was mutual, and Margaret 
laughingly held out her hand. 

“Why,” said John, “do you live in the neighbor¬ 
hood?” 

“Certainly,” replied Margaret, “we live at number 
fourteen.” 

In that case, said John, we shall indeed be very near 
neighbors, which will give me great pleasure. I rushed 
away so hastily today that I forgot to ask your ad¬ 
dress although I know that it would be a very easy 
matter to ascertain the whereabouts of London’s most 
popular singer.” 

Margaret blushed at his words, for she felt far 
46 


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47 


more embarrassed at receiving praise from him than 
from anybody else. 

“I will say goodnight,” said John, raising his hat, 
“I will not keep you as the hour is late. May I call 
sometime?” 

Margaret replied that she would be pleased to see 
him again and they parted. John went to his rooms 
overflowing with happiness. All else was forgotten, 
for when he thought of Margaret the world was lost. 
John’s dreams were filled with the woman he loved and 
yet he dared not mention his feelings to her but he 
lived in hope that some day the door would open that 
would lead him to Margaret. 

And Margaret sat before her dressing-table her 
head resting between her hands wistfully gazing at 
the pictures she conjured up in her dreams. Pictures 
sacred to her heart, John, herself as his wife, perhaps 
a child; God grant that all the beautiful, sweet, pure, 
dreams of maidenhood may always come true. 

John rose fairly early in the morning and after 
breakfasting decided to see his vicar and arrange about 
some parish work. He wanted to get in harness as 
quickly as possible, for he was no sluggard. As usual 
he made his way on foot and it was nearly ten o’clock 
before he reached Regents Park. 

The portly butler who answered the door showed 
John to the library and after waiting some few 
minutes the Reverend Robert came into the room. 

“My dear boy, I am glad that you called. My wife 
and I were speaking about you at breakfast—by the 
way, have you had breakfast?” 

John smilingly replied in the affirmative. 

“Oh!” said the Vicar, “you rise very early; but you 
see my dear boy I work very hard, the strenuous life 


48 


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will tell on one’s physique these days. I find it almost 
impossible to rise before nine in the morning.” 

The Vicar, like many others of his kind, honestly 
believed that he was a very hard working man. After 
the funeral of yesterday he had gone direct to his club 
where he played bridge steadily until two in the morn¬ 
ing. Had John known this, he would have been hor¬ 
rified. To perform a funeral service and then go 
straight to a gambling den! For after all there are 
very few clubs in London that do not come directly 
under this appellation. 

“Yes, my boy, I am glad you called,” continued the 
Vicar, "“first, I want you to meet Mrs. Stone and then I 
want you to visit some people for me. They have just 
arrived from America and have taken a furnished 
house in Mayfair; at least the lady has, the man I be¬ 
lieve is just a friend who is a guest for a week or 
two.” 

John murmured his delight at being able to be of 
service to his vicar and the Reverend Stone conducted 
him to meet Mrs. Stone. She was sitting in her 
boudoir and languidly rose and extended her hand as 
John came into the room. “I am sure, Mr. Keen, we 
are glad to welcome you, we really have had such 
trouble in getting a suitable successor.” 

John, in his simple way, wondered why, for he 
knew hundreds of splendid men who had been waiting 
for a curacy for some months. 

“My dear,” said the Vicar, turning to his wife, “I 
am going to send our new colleague to call on those 
American people—a Mrs. Cochrane, I believe.” 

“I hear,” said Mrs. Stone, “that she is enormously 
rich, which is only usual with American people.” 

Poor John hated to discuss the wealthy side of his 
parishioner’s life, and hastily disclaimed any knowledge 


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49 


of them. “For you see,” said John, “I am so very 
new to London that I scarcely know a dozen people.” 

“Don’t worry about that,” said Mrs. Stone, “you 
will soon make a host of friends now, Mr. Keen; for¬ 
tunately you belong to the parish where the very best 
people reside.” 

John, having obtained the address of Mrs. Coch¬ 
rane, shook hands and departed, not however until he 
had received instructions from Mrs. Stone to the effect 
that he was to let Mrs. Cochrane know that Sir Rich¬ 
ard Keen was his uncle. He left the house in a 
pensive mood. He was beginning to feel bitterly 
disappointed in the Vicar. His bumptiousness, and 
the pride in which he spoke of the celebrities made 
John feel ashamed of him. Was Frank Greymarsh 
right? “God forbid!” thought John, “I am already 
beginning to judge my fellow men and this will never 
do.” He managed to assume a more cheerful disposi¬ 
tion by the time he reached Mayfair. 

Mrs. Cochrane, acting on the advice of Steven 
Hargraves, had taken a furnished house with the dis¬ 
tinct understanding that Steven was to be her guest 
“I shall feel that lost if you don’t just help me, Steve”; 
and Steven had been only too glad to come to her 
rescue. Steven knew full well that Mrs. Cochrane, in 
spite of her wealth, would come in for a good deal of 
criticism and he resolved for the sake of his country¬ 
woman, that he would endeavor to be of as much assist¬ 
ance as possible. The house happened to be for rent 
immediately and the agents soon found them a mar¬ 
ried couple and a maid who would do the necessary 
work. Mrs. Cochrane’s idea had been to entertain on 
a lavish scale, but acting under Steven’s advice she 
decided that she would wait a few months before at¬ 
tempting anything of this nature. 


50 


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On the passage over, Lord Bitterne had been thrown 
a good deal into her society, and she had amused him 
greatly by her ready witticisms and cheerful good 
nature. He had promised to introduce her to many 
of his friends, and Mrs. Cochrane had beamed with 
delight when he informed her that her desire to meet a 
real Duchess should be realized. One thing, however, 
Mrs. Cochrane had noticed, and that was that Lord 
Bitterne seemed to spend the greater part of his time 
flirting. She had caught him kissing the stewardess 
one morning, and the same evening she had seen him 
leaning over the ship’s side, with his arm around the 
waist of a married lady. To say that Mrs. Cochrane 
was shocked was putting it mildly. “I guess that guy 
sure is love-sick, Steve, anybody would think that he 
was a blue-beard.” 

Steven confidently told Mrs. Cochrane something of 
George’s history. “I honestly don’t think that he 
means any harm, Mrs. Cochrane. One day he will get 
married; just now the boy never seems happy unless he 
can run around with a girl.” 

“Well! it beats me,” said Mrs. Cochrane, “how a 
young fellow like that, and him a Lord now, should 
want any practice. He only heard by wireless two days 
ago that his father was dead. Land sakes alive, boy, 
where’s his heart?” 

Steven excused his friend on the grounds that he 
was simply trying to forget his sorrow; but deep down 
in his heart he was a little bit ashamed of George’s 
actions. 

On arriving at Mayfair, John Keen was shown di¬ 
rectly into the presence of Mrs. Cochrane and Steven 
Hargraves. 

“Good morning,” said John, “I have called to wel¬ 
come you to London and in the name of the Reverend 


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51 


Robert Stone, Vicar of St. Martha’s, which is in this 
diocese, offer you any assistance that you may require.” 

“Now, that’s real good of you, Mr. Keen, I don’t 
hanker much after parsons myself but I guess you 
mean well.” 

Steven who had been looking steadily at John now 
asked him, “Mr. Keen, weren’t you in France?” 

“Indeed I was,” said John. 

“Then shake hands,” said Steven, “I have seen you 
many times over there and I can honestly say the men 
you came in contact with thought a great deal of you.” 

“Steve, is this the parson you were telling me about, 
who used to sit night and day by the boys when they 
were bad off ?” said Mrs. Cochrane. 

“Yes,” said Steven, “this is the padre I spoke so 
much about.” 

Mrs. Cochrane, in her impulsive way, walked up to 
John and throwing her arms around his neck kissed 
him soundly on the cheek. 

“My boy died when he was only five years old,” 
sobbed Mrs. Cochrane, “but I know if he had lived and 
had been out in that mess over in France, you would 
perhaps have been kind to him also. I am trying 
to thank you,” said Mrs. Cochrane, “in the name of the 
mothers in America who never saw their boys come 
back.” When Mrs. Cochrane resumed her seat, John 
found two great tears slowly falling down his cheeks. 
In that brief moment he knew that he had met one 
woman in a thousand, and his heart warmed towards 
her. 

They chatted pleasantly for an hour or so and John 
thought the Americanisms of Mrs. Cochrane the most 
pleasant and delightful things he had heard for many a 
day. Both Mrs, Cochrane and Steven promised to 
attend St. Martha’s while they were in London. 


52 


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On John arising to depart, Steven intimated that 
he would walk part of the way with him. 

“Mr. Keen,” said Steven, when they had left the 
house, “I believe that I heard George, Lord Bitterne 
you know, say that you and he were friends. Is that 
so?” 

“Yes,” replied John, “Lord Bitterne and I were at 
Cambridge together and we spent a good deal of time 
in each other’s society.” 

“Well then tell me, Mr. Keen, what sort of a boy 
was George at college?” 

John gave a short description of Lord Bitterne as 
he had known him, and as really the only good thing 
he had known of Lord Bitterne was his generous 
nature, he dwelt at some length on it. 

“Sure,” said Steven, “I know that he is generous 
enough, but Mr. Keen, I want to tell you this. If 
George does not look after himself he is going to 
become a degenerate.” 

John felt pained at Steven’s words, which he knew 
only too well were unfortunately true. Steven gave 
John a brief outline of George’s career while in New 
York and how he had tried, first by persuasion, and 
finally by letting him have all the rope he needed in 
ultimate hope that he would speedily grow sick of fast 
living. “And I just want to tell you, Mr. Keen, that 
George is not making any progress in the right direc¬ 
tion. I am very fond of him, and if you could use your 
influence to help him cultivate a little self-control, be¬ 
lieve me, I should be extremely grateful.” 

John willingly promised and they parted. 

“Well,” thought John, “today I have met two of 
the most delightful people I have ever seen, with the 
exception of Margaret; first a wonderful American 
woman, God bless her! second, a splendid type of 


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53 


American manhood in Mr. Hargraves.” Just at that 
particular moment John very much wanted to go to 
America; for it seemed to him a country of that 
genuine love and chivalry which is so rarely found 
nowadays. 


VI 


Lord Bitterne sat alone in his spacious and well- 
furnished study. His figure had lost some of that 
dissipated look which formerly held predominance. A 
week had passed since the burial of his father, and 
young Lord Bitterne had shut himself practically away 
from everybody. 

It had been a very bitter week for him. He had 
read his father’s letter over and over again. In his 
father’s desk he had found a photograph of a very 
pretty girl, and his heart had told him that it was a 
picture of his mother. The face was all that he could 
have desired for the gentle eyes and soft mouth spoke 
so vividly of the love and affection of her nature. 

Lord Bitterne had written to Mr. Rider and he was 
expecting him to call. He felt sure that Mr. Rider 
knew the whole sad story, and he was anxious to hear 
for himself how his father could have been so cruel 
and unjust. 

Mr. Rider was announced, and Lord Bitterne, after 
shaking hands, bade him be seated. 

“Mr. Rider,” began his Lordship, “you will no 
doubt understand my feelings and realize a little of my 
sufferings during the past week. I want very much 
to hear from you the whole truth regarding the disap¬ 
pearance of my mother and then I want to take steps 
to find her. Half of the estate which my father left 
to me you may spend freely, if necessary, to find some 
trace of my mother.” Here Lord Bitterne buried his 
face in his hands. 

Mr. Rider then gently and quietly told the story of 
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55 


how Lady Bitterne had been accused without any cause 
whatever. How she had been driven forth from her 
home with hardly a penny to her name. Mr. Rider 
did not spare the late Lord Bitterne, and as the bitter 
truth slowly forced its way into the boy’s mind, he 
sobbed like a child. 

“I may tell you now quite candidly that your father, 
a few weeks after her Ladyship left, became quite con¬ 
vinced of his error. It may seem a strange thing to 
say, but your father had a good deal of affection for 
your mother, and when I tell you that he spent nearly 
fifteen thousand pounds in about two years trying to 
find Lady Bitterne, you must recognize the genuine¬ 
ness of his efforts. Nothing ever came of them I re¬ 
gret to say, and your father was forced to believe that 
Lady Bitterne could not forgive him, and would always 
remain in hiding. However, if your Lordship wishes 
we will again take up the search. Nothing would give 
me greater pleasure than to be able to find some trace 
of your mother.” 

Lord Bitterne thanked him and again told him to 
spare no expense. “If only we can find out if she 
is still alive,” said Lord Bitterne, “I shall rest content 
all my days in looking after my mother.” 

Mr. Rider quietly bowed himself out of the room 
and returned to his office. 

Now it so happened that John Keen, during a morn¬ 
ing walk, found himself in Park Lane, and suddenly 
remembered his promise to Steven Hargraves to look 
up Lord Bitterne. John therefore made his way up 
the stone steps and rang the bell The butler who took 
his card gave him to understand that so far Lord Bit¬ 
terne had not been receiving, but he would see if his 
Lordship would be at home today. 

Lord Bitterne seemed pleased at receiving John’s 


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card, and immediately gave orders for him to be 
shown in. John was astonished at Lord Bitterne’s 
appearance. He could only recall the memory of a 
youthful, boyish face full of smiles, but the man he saw 
was old looking and sad. 

“My dear Keen, I am sure that it is awfully good of 
you to call. I am so fearfully in the blues today that 
I am heartily glad to see you. You were always such 
a pleasant fellow at Cambridge that I feel sure that you 
are going to do me good.” 

“If I can be of any assistance to your Lordship what¬ 
soever,” replied John, “nothing will give me greater 
pleasure.” 

“Well, John, there is one thing you can do at the 
onset, please call me Bitterne. I can assure you that 
it gives me little pleasure to be Lorded.” 

John gave his usual kind smile, and after offering 
his sympathy he asked Lord Bitterne if he had any 
plans for the future. 

“The future,” said Lord Bitterne, “does not seem 
very bright to me. I do not mean my father, you 
know John, but that dear lady who should be here now, 
my mother.” Without waiting to ask John whether 
he knew, George proceeded to tell him the story as he 
had just heard it. “John, old chap, you were liked by 
everybody at college. Many a time you have given me 
advice which I regret to say I never followed. What 
would you do now if you were in my place?” 

John sat thoughtfully for a few moments. To him 
there were two things that made a man supremely 
happy and in a sense they were almost synonymous. 
First, trust in God. Second, love of a good woman. 

“Bitterne, I am not much of a comforter,” said 
John, “and what I am going to say now may not give 
you the relief that I feel your heart needs, but it all 


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57 


depends on you. In the first place remember that your 
dear mother was a sweet, sainted woman, and if she is 
no more, remember that in the world she is gone to 
there is no pain or sorrow, but just perfect happiness 
and contentment. In the second place if (and for your 
sake dear lad God grant it may be so) she is alive, you 
will have a bright and happy future before you in 
making amends for your father’s sad mistake. There 
is one other thing, Bitterne, and that is just this; try 
to live the life you think that your mother would like 
you to lead. Some day, and perhaps nearer than you 
anticipate, there is a sweet souled woman whom you 
will ask to share your life; and Bitterne remember this, 
try never to forget it, when you. ask this woman to 
share your future happiness you will expect her to be 
unblemished. Keep yourself true so that you may 
go to her without the knowledge of a guilty and sinful 
past.” 

John was speaking very earnestly, pleading almost. 
He thought that the opportunity was never better than 
at that present moment; for when the soul is sad good 
resolutions very easily take root. Lord Bitterne had 
bowed his head when John commenced speaking, and a 
surge of shame came over him when he thought of the 
life he had lived. 

“I am afraid, John, that it is a little too late, I am 
already soiled,” said George, “but I tell you I honestly 
will try for the sake of the girl that is to come, to live 
decently. You make me feel a better man already,” 
said Lord Bitterne suddenly springing to his feet. 
“Why, John, it seems like old days.” 

John felt wonderfully happy to see the smile on 
his friend’s face, and in his heart he offered a silent 
prayer for the future of Lord Bitterne. 

“By the way,” said John, “I met two very won- 


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derful people on Thursday, whom you know very well, 
a Mrs. Cochrane and a Mr. Hargraves.” 

“Then let me tell you,” said George, “that you have 
indeed been fortunate in meeting them. Steven is the 
dearest fellow in the world, and Mrs. Cochrane is as 
kind as she is unconventional.” 

“I have already found that out,” said John, “al¬ 
though I should hesitate before I called Mrs. Cochrane 
unconventional.” 

“Yes, you are right, John, but you see I meant that 
she makes such delightful conversational errors that I 
cannot help calling her that.” 

John smiled at the serious way in which Lord Bit- 
terne tried to apologize but realized his sincerity, for 
he knew that George was at heart a gentleman and 
would not wittingly give offense. 

“I must ask them to call,” said George. “Do you 
think it would be right for me to entertain people just 
yet?” 

“Yes,” replied John, “I certainly would not keep 
myself shut up day after day. Go out, my dear Bit- 
terne, and mix with people. Feel something of the 
joy of living.” 

“You are right, John, I never thought of that. I 
will try to banish all thoughts of sadness and just look 
forward to the future. Now, old man, when should I 
entertain again? Forgive me if I bore you but I really 
feel the need of a little advice, and this time I shall 
take it.” 

“I should think that in about three weeks from now 
you could, without fear of censure, give an informal 
party,” replied John. “By the way, I don’t presume to 
teach you etiquette, but of course you know that it will 
be necessary to have a hostess.” 

“Don’t worry about that part of it, John, for to- 


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morrow my aunt, Lady Vermont, is coming to spend 
some months, and she will act in that capacity. Now I 
want you to come and see me very often. I appreci¬ 
ate your friendship very much. I never thought that 
I could feel so much better. God bless you, John. 
Now promise me; the first party I give, you will come. 
I know that affairs of this kind are hardly in your line, 
but for the sake of old days.” 

John promised that he would be present and George 
gave him a grip of the hand that made him wince. 

“I hear that you are at St. Martha’s, and for once 
I am in a position to give you a little advice, to wit: 
if you want to stay in this parish, nurse your congre¬ 
gation,” said George. 

“What in the world do you mean?” said John smil¬ 
ing in spite of himself at Lord Bitterne’s words. 

“I mean just this, that although you have perhaps 
one of the most aristocratic congregations in England, 
you also have one of the most God-forsaken crowds 
that ever profaned a church. You see, John, I know 
the vast majority only too well. Your Vicar is a lazy, 
useless nonentity who spends nearly all his time at the 
club sampling champagne and playing bridge, and al¬ 
though it is not good form to talk about a lady behind 
her back, I want to tell you that Mrs. Stone is the 
greatest scandalmonger in Europe. She has loads of 
money, and every time you see a man or woman drunk 
in the streets, you may safely say that the poor 
wretches have just deposited their cash to the credit of 
Mrs. Stone. She practically owns the public houses of 
the lowest possible type. She does not give a penny- 
piece to charity. She is mean, vulgar, illiterate and 
snobbish. My dear John, your Vicar and his good 
lady represent the type you may expect to find in your 
congregation, so when I say nurse them; by that I 


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mean, don’t ever ruffle their feathers. Never tell them 
the story of Dives and Lazarus, but rather let them 
think that they are just the thing.” 

Poor John, how he had built his hopes on this ap¬ 
pointment. Then first Greymarsh, and now Lord Bit- 
terne were shattering all his ideals. 

“Bitterne,” said John, “I want to tell you now that 
in the name of the Christ I profess to serve, if there is 
any hypocrisy in the Church of God, I will expose it. 
If what you say of Stone is true he must leave the 
Church. As for my nursing my congregation, I shall 
never do that. I shall preach the gospel from the be¬ 
ginning to the end, even if it means that I have to leave 
St. Martha’s; aye even if I have to give up the cloth; 
for I want to be a man to live among men, and I 
cannot stay in the Church if she is corrupt.” 

“Well done,” said Lord Bitterne, “go after them 
old chap, I will back you for all I am worth, and if 
you should feel compelled to give up the game, rest 
assured that there are other fields open to you. Well 
goodbye, John, thanks a thousand times for calling.” 

John walked home with a sad heart. 


VII 


To the average American the West End of London 
means refinement, stately mansions, and well-paved 
roads. Nevertheless there are filthy slums tucked 
away as it were, right at the back doors of the homes 
of magnates. 

Within a very short distance of Park Lane there 
is a series of narrow passages, filled day and night 
with crying, screaming, ragged children, slatternly 
women and drunken men. The public houses at the 
respective ends of these passages are patronized by the 
unfortunate wretches who are condemned to live in 
Cross Keys Passages. 

As this district was directly in the diocese of St. 
Martha’s it is only natural to suppose that Cross Keys 
was well patronized by the Reverend Robert Stone and 
his satellites. As a matter of fact, as far as the 
officers of St. Martha’s were concerned Cross Keys 
did not exist. The residents had been so long un¬ 
troubled by seekers of lost souls that a wave of aston¬ 
ishment swept through the narrow passages, when a 
poor, frail-looking gentleman in clergyman’s attire was 
seen to enter. 

Poor little Dicky Morse had made up his mind that 
he was not doing his duty and had resolved that he 
would give a portion of his time to Cross Keys. Sit¬ 
ting on a doorstep in rags and tatters with her hair 
unkempt and dirty, was what might have been the 
figure of a buxom woman. The Reverend Dicky po¬ 
litely raising his hat approached her and tried to start 
some sort of conversation. 

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Dicky felt very nervous. A group of lounging men 
and women were gathering around to see the fun. The 
woman raised her drink-sodden face to Dicky and 
asked him what the “ ’ell” he wanted, “why couldn’t 
’e let a woman ’av ’er bloomin’ nap,” and to the shocked 
and horrified Dicky, rose unsteadily to her feet and ap¬ 
proaching flung her arms around his neck and with 
the beery tears running down her cheeks inquired, 
“Why didn’t yer come ’ome before, old son? Leave 
me would yer? ’Ere! ’ow abaht that kid of yourn? 
Never mind old duck, slip me a bob and I’ll forgive 
yer.” 

Dicky was rescued by a fat policeman who had 
watched the whole proceedings from near by and had 
had the nearest approach to apoplexy possible. His 
huge form was still quivering with merriment as he 
separated Cross Keys Sal from Dicky Morse and led 
that gentleman away. 

“Lord bless yer sir, yer don’t want to waste yer 
time dahn ’ere. They is too far gone to want a parson. 
Why, if I ’adn’t been ’ere they’d taken the clothes off 
yer back.” 

The terrified Dicky was only too thankful to get out 
of the district as quickly as possible, and that ended 
visiting slums for the Reverend Richard Morse. 

What was the surprise then of the Cross Keys com¬ 
munity to see a few weeks afterward another “bloom¬ 
ing” sky-pilot in their midst. This time it was no 
weakling, however, for John Keen was a finely built 
man. He had heard how poor little Dicky had been 
received, and in spite of his sympathy with his col¬ 
league, John had laughed till the tears ran down his 
cheeks while poor little Dicky’s amazement only tended 
to make his laugh the heartier. 

John intended not only visiting Cross Keys, but also 


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making friends there. The populace eyed him with a 
good deal of suspicion and very audible remarks con¬ 
demning his eyesight and nose told John very plainly 
that he had no very easy task before him. 

A fortunate thing now happened for John. A man 
had just come to the doorway of the Bull, pint-pot in 
hand. Bill Booze as they called him, on account of his 
intimate association with the ingredients that made 
up his nick-name, had been hastily summoned by the 
landlord to see the blinkin’ church-robber. As one may 
guess, landlords, especially of public houses in districts 
such as these, had no very great love for the higher 
life. 

To the landlord’s surprise and indignation, Bill no 
sooner caught sight of John, than waving his pint-pot 
to the disadvantage of its contents he ran up to him. 
“Blimey mates! it’s the Heaven chucker wot was wif us 
in the trenches. How’r yer, sir?” 

John heartily shook hands with Bill, “And how are 
you getting on now,” asked John, “not taking to drink 
again are you?” looking steadily at the pewter pot. 

“W’y, fawncy yer askin’ me that nah. No sir, I 
ain’t exactly taken ter drink; as a matter of fact I don’t 
like it but just a little nah and then. Doctor’s orders, 
sir, for me wound.” 

Bill was just starting on his fifteenth pint for the 
day when John appeared. 

“Well,” said John, “I want you to remember what 
you promised me in France. You were very near 
death there William.” 

Bill hung his head in a shamefaced way. “Yer right, 
Captain, I must knock off the booze.” 

“Give me your hand on that, William.” 

One of the crowd now jeeringly made illusion to 
the fact that Bill had sold his mates to a Bible 


64 


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Thumper. Off came Bill’s coat in a minute. “W’y, 
yer blasted lot of Gawd-forsaken swine, I’ll kick ’ell 
out of the ’ole bleedin’ crowd,” said Bill. “Don’t I 
know this ’ere bloke and don’t pretty near all of us 
know him? Why, aht there in Frawnce this ’ere bloke 
was the best friend we ever ’ad.” 

Two more of the audience who had come into 
contact with John now came forward and shook hands 
with a sheepish grin. 

“Don’t you mind this ’ere crowd, sir, its only the 
scrapin’s of ’ell, sir; they ain’t been dragged up like 
you and me sir.” 

John felt that he was indeed getting on famously. 
“Thank you boys, very much. Friends, I may tell you 
that I have just come to live in your neighborhood and 
I intend making myself your friend. I shall call often, 
and when you feel that you want help, as your parson, 
I want you to let me help you.” 

“Nah yer giving it ’em,” said Bill. 

The audience seemed very much impressed with 
John’s words, and some, disappointed that there would 
be no fun, drifted back to the saloon and engaged in 
the more popular pastime of emptying mugs. 

“William, I want you to introduce me to> your friends 
Here,” said John, “and remember you must from now 
on be my batman when I am on duty in this district.” 

Bill faithfully promised that he would always be in 
attendance. “Nah, sir, suppose that I first of all in¬ 
troduce yer to Gentleman Pete.” 

“Certainly,” said John, “I shall be glad to see him.” 

“Give way for the parson, men. Come on Captain, 
this way and mind yer napper.” John followed his 
guide down a narrow passage and up some stairs until 
they came to a door. Throwing it open, Bill entered 
and with a bow that would have done credit to Presi- 


SIN 


65 


dent Wilson or William J. Bryan, announced “Cap, 
the Parson Bloke wot was wif us in France.” 

A man and woman were seated at the table and they 
hastily arose as John came into the room. The man 
quietly offered John a chair while Bill muttering some 
excuse about getting home to dinner tumbled down the 
stairs and with a dry feeling round his tongue went 
back to commence his sixteenth pint. 

“My name is Keen, John Keen,” said John. The 
man slightly inclined his head and introduced himself 
as Peter Morgan, then in turn presented his wife. 
Both the man and the woman had an air of refinement 
that was not lost on John, and he wondered. 

“I am sure, Mr. Keen, that it is a poor place for 
you to come into, but I may say both for my wife and 
myself (here the man cast an affectionate look at the 
lady), that we have been exceptionally happy during 
our residence here, it is our home, but at same time 
we shall not be sorry to leave it.” 

“Then you are going away?” said John. 

“Yes sir, I have been working hard now ever since I 
left the army and we have saved sufficient to pay our 
passage to America.” 

“I must congratulate you both,” said John, “for I 
have a very warm feeling in my heart for that great 
country, where districts of this sort are practically un¬ 
known. I presume you have some trade to follow 
when you reach America?” 

“Well, it is not exactly a trade,” said the man, “but 
I believe I shall get work at it. I am a schoolmaster.” 
John was astonished. His breeding prevented him 
from questioning as to why a man and woman of 
evident education should reside in this quarter of 
London. 

The man guessing his thoughts told him how he had 


66 


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been unable to get an appointment since he left the 
army. The landlord who owned Cross Keys district 
had given him free rooms and a few shillings a week 
to collect the rents each Saturday. As this did not inter¬ 
fere with his regular hours he had also obtained em¬ 
ployment as day porter at a West End Hotel where 
with his tips he had saved sufficient to start for a new 
world. 

John was beginning to see humanity in a different 
light. He could recognize some of the grim determi¬ 
nation which lay at the back of this man’s character, 
and happening to look towards the woman he saw her 
smiling at her husband with such a look of devotion on 
her face that John marveled. 

“I wish you every success in the world,” said John, 
"and if you are in this neighborhood on Sunday, I 
should like to see you at church.” 

Mr. Morgan shook his head. "While I believe in 
God and in Christ I do not believe in the so-called 
Church (with apologies to you, sir,) and I have not 
been inside of one for many years; but I like you, Mr. 
Keen, you have a genuine ring about you and I believe 
that after all we may enter your church. Can I have 
the banns read from St. Martha’s?” 

"Why yes, certainly,” said John with astonishment. 
"Are some friends of yours to be married?” 

"No,” said Mr. Morgan, "but we are,” and he 
looked lovingly at the lady. 

John was silent. He felt himself placed on the horns 
of a dilemma, and he waited for Mr. Morgan to speak 
again. 

Peter Morgan noting John’s look of bewilderment 
readily offered to explain why they wished to go 
through the marriage ceremony. 

"You see, Mr. Keen, the story is a very sad one in 


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67 


some respects; although, thank God for the past or I 
might never have had you, dear little girl,” said Peter 
letting his hand rest lovingly on his wife’s head. She 
had turned her face away as though in shame. 

“Nine years ago I was a schoolmaster at Taunton. 
I had been in the town for about two months when 
I was able to render some service to a lady, my present 
wife. A drunken brute of a husband was ill-treating 
her and I managed to rescue her from his blows. She 
was grateful for my help and when she had left me, a 
great pity for her came into my heart. She tried every¬ 
thing in her power to save her husband from the 
drunkard’s way, but to no effect, and one night he 
turned her out of doors and told her to go to hell. As 
I had chatted with her once or twice she came to me 
for advice. I helped her to reach London where she 
obtained work as a domestic servant!. Coming to Lon¬ 
don myself shortly afterwards we saw a great deal 
of each other. We soon became aware that God had 
sent us into each other’s lives, so we made up our 
minds to get married. I bought a ring, and one eve¬ 
ning taking a bus out into the country we walked across 
some fields until we came to a fallen tree, and there 
kneeling down we asked God to make us man and 
wife; and if ever God made a marriage he made ours.” 

“You see, sir,” said Mrs. Morgan, “raising her head, 
we went direct to God himself, and God gave us to 
each other. All the Church sermons could not make 
us more married than we are at present. My late 
husband, he was killed in France, sir, forfeited his 
right to call me wife and broke his marriage vows. 
I was free to marry Peter.” 

“And now,” said Peter with a happy smile, “we ex¬ 
pect a little stranger one of these days and for legal 
protection we are going through the marriage service.” 


68 


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John took Mrs. Morgan by the hand and in a husky 
voice said, “Mrs. Morgan, there are millions of people 
who would point the finger of scorn at you if they 
knew your history; but I, knowing it, can only say this 
—that I hope with all my heart and soul some day I 
may be as truly married as you.” Then turning to Peter 
he said, “by all means go through the marriage cere¬ 
mony for the sake of the child which is to come; but 
from my heart, I can assure you that all the ministers 
of the gospel in the world could not make your mar¬ 
riage more real than you have made it yourselves.” 

And John went to rest that night marvelling at the 
beauty of character revealed to him that day. He did 
not see Mr. and Mrs. Morgan again for they left 
London for Liverpool in haste and were married be¬ 
fore embarking for America. 


VIII 


Unmarried daughters and daughters who had 
been married and unmarried again were plentiful 
and many. The war had taken a very heavy 
toll of the world’s manhood and mothers were 
at their wits’ end. 

The announcement that Lady Vermont had 
taken up her abode with her nephew Lord Bit- 
terne caused a flutter of expectation. Lord Bit- 
terne, of course, was a great catch and hope ran 
high in many families that possibly one of their 
fair daughters would be the lucky one. 

Lady Vermont had decided that August 4th 
should be a house-warming party and was busy 
issuing invitations to the elect. Lord Bitterne was 
not consulted on the subject, nevertheless he him¬ 
self sent invitations to John Keen, Steven Har¬ 
graves, Mrs. Cochrane, and Mary Richards; for 
deep down in his heart he felt that he wanted 
to renew his friendship with Mary. 

This would really be the first society party for 
Mrs. Cochrane and she intended doing it justice. 
With her sound wisdom she had placed herself 
in the hands of a capable dressmaker, conse¬ 
quently in addition to being garbed in the height 
of fashion, she was also sensibly dressed and no 
one could possibly find fault with her style which 
after all in these days of wear all or nothing, 
was a very wonderful thing. 

The evening of the fourth of August saw a 
large crowd of notables assembled at Park Lane. 

69 


70 


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A steady stream of cars rolled up to the door, 
deposited their burdens and departed. 

Only one guest Arrived on foot and the cir¬ 
cumstance being so unusual, the footman almost 
made up his mind to refuse admittance; but the 
sight of a clerical collar made all the difference 
and John Keen was admitted with something of 
the same pomp and ceremony that had charac¬ 
terized his predecessors. 

Lady Vermont gave John a cordial welcome, 
not from any particular love or affection for John 
himself, for as far as she was concerned he did 
not exist, but as the nephew of the probable 
future prime minister of England, John became 
a person worth knowing. 

There were very few people there that John 
knew and he was glad to keep as much in the 
background as possible. Mrs. Stone came into 
the room in a dress that would have made Sep¬ 
tember Morn blush, one could never reconcile 
themselves to the fact that she was the vicar's 
wife, while her husband followed with that bland 
look of self-importance which had made him 
obnoxious to many. 

The Duke and Duchess of Renton were the 
next to arrive and after being greeted by Lady 
Vermont were immediately surrounded by the 
usual crowd of worshippers. The Duke and 
Duchess of Renton were typical of the English 
aristocracy, kind, courteous and, amazing though 
it may seem, not a bit self-conscious or proud. 
At their country residence the old Duke would 
walk abroad and chat with the villagers in the 
same kindly manner as he did to his equals, and 
the Duchess had more friends among the mothers 




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71 


and daughters of Renton village than she had 
in the whole of London. Neither the Duke or 
his lady cared much about these receptions, but in 
a sense of duty accepted an invitation now and 
then. 

With the exception of Mrs. Cochrane and 
Steven all the guests had arrived and the butler 
was crazy with anxiety, for the hour of dinner 
had gone by, when the belated guests were duly 
announced. 

A hush of expectancy fell on the assembled 
guests as Mrs. Cochrane, followed by Steven, 
advanced into the room. 

“I am sure sorry we are late,” said Mrs. 
Cochrane, “but that big boob of a shover forgot 
to fill her up with gas and we had to wait until 
he got her going.” 

A smile of amusement passed from face to face 
and the majority immediately came to the con¬ 
clusion that it was going to be an amusing eve¬ 
ning after all. 

Lady Vermont now gave the signal and the 
gong was sounded. Lord Bitterne arranged for 
the Duke of Renton to take Mrs. Cochrane into 
dinner, and Mrs. Cochrane on being presented 
felt very proud. 

“You are the first Duke that I have ever met,” 
said Mrs. Cochrane, her homely face beaming with 
pleasure. 

“Then I sincerely hope,” replied the gentle¬ 
man, “that you are not disappointed,” and Mrs. 
Cochrane taking the arm he offered her followed 
the others into the dining-room. 

Mary Richards was assigned to Steven Har- 


72 


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graves, while John Keen led the charming Mrs. 
Stone to her seat. 

The dinner was a masterpiece of culinary art, 
and the vicar felt completely in accord with the 
arrangements which gave such excellent fare. 

After the soup had passed conversation became 
fairly general. Steven had Mary Richards very 
deeply interested in America and Mary made 
Steven promise to come to the Gaiety and see her. 
Occasionally her eyes would wander to Lord 
Bitterne who was trying to interest an entirely 
uninteresting little woman who had just written 
a book on hygienics, and refused to talk on any 
other subject. As Lord Bitterne’s knowledge of 
the topic was practically nil he was obliged to 
listen to a multitude of twaddle that would make 
a policeman yawn. 

Mrs. Cochrane, in no way abashed by the bril¬ 
liant assembly, was very loquacious. The dear 
old Duke had casually mentioned that he had 
several good short-horns on his estate, and from 
then on Mrs. Cochrane told him more about cat¬ 
tle than he had even known in his life before. In 
fact he was so impressed that he insisted on her 
coming down the following week and spending a 
few days, and knowing that Steven Hargraves 
was a protege of Mrs. Cochrane included him 
in the invitation. 

Opposite to Mrs. Cochrane sat the Reverend 
Robert Stone, and Mrs. Cochrane had watched 
with amazement the efforts of that gentleman to 
annihilate his food. 

After dinner the ladies retired to the drawing¬ 
room and the men lit their cigars. The Duke of 
Renton leaning nearer Steven informed him of his 


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73 


invitation to Mrs. Cochrane and asked Steven if 
he could have the pleasure of his company also. 

Steven gladly consented; for he had taken a 
very warm liking to the Duke. The courteous 
manner in which he had spoken of Steven’s own 
country and the utter absence of reserve appealed 
to him. 

Lord Bitterne now found a few minutes to 
speak to Steven, as he had barely been able to 
notice him before. 

“Well, Steven, old chap, if I did not know you 
I should be jealous. Do you know that the little 
girl that you took into dinner is the only girl 
in the world that I ever thought anything of?” 

Steven smiled back at Lord Bitterne and plac¬ 
ing his arm around his shoulders demanded an 
invitation to the wedding. 

“But joking apart, George, I do hope old boy 
that some day you will really settle down. You 
owe it to your name and to the generations of 
Bitternes that are to come, you know.” 

With something of his old cheerful good nature 
he assured Steven that if he was not married 
just yet it was because he loved them all too 
much. 

Lord Bitterne now proposed to join the ladies 
and they entered the drawing-room. Lady 
Vermont had engaged the services of Margaret 
Hinton to sing, and Margaret was coming at 
half-past ten. 

The majority of the guests were anticipating 
some amusement, for Mrs. Cochrane had been 
condemning in an audible voice parsons and snobs. 
The Vicar just happened to be seated by Mrs. 
Cochrane when she informed a much over- 


74 


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dressed dame that a parson who drank should 
give up his job and be a bar-tender. 

Leaning forward, the Reverend Robert in his 
bland voice informed Mrs. Cochrane, “that a little 
wine for the stomach’s sake, according to St. 
Timothy, was very necessary.” 

“Now that may be so,” replied Mrs. Cochrane, 
“but there is a lot of difference in giving a cow a 
drink and taking the poor thing down to the 
river and pushing her in.” 

The simile was not lost on the Vicar, who had 
consumed about enough wine to make any ordi¬ 
nary man hopelessly drunk; but he felt that his 
reputation as an orator was at stake and imme¬ 
diately commenced a discourse on the use and 
abuse of drink, when he was brought to a sudden 
stop by Mrs. Cochrane. 

“Mister Vicar, you put me in mind of a guy 
who came out to our farm one night all dolled 
up like a parson; he could talk like a gramaphone. 
We offered to put him up for the night and the 
way he prayed made us both cry. The next morn¬ 
ing when we woke up we found that the parson- 
fellow had beat it with my husband’s boots and 
two of our best horses.” 

A roar of laughter greeted Mrs. Cochrane’s 
story and an expectant silence fell on the com¬ 
pany as they waited to see the winner of the 
debate. Poor Stone was just beginning to won¬ 
der what he was up against. 

“But, my dear madam, surely the action of 
this man in stealing your property should con¬ 
vince you that he was a fraud masquerading in 
the uniform of the Church.” 

“Well, I don’t know about that,” replied Mrs. 


SIN 


75 


Cochrane. “My poor husband used to say, ‘Mar¬ 
tha, look out for parsons and rattlers. Both make 
a noise before they strike, and the parson-fellow 
generally aims to hit either your wad or your 
reputation; whichever comes first, he grabs.” 

Oh! the joy depicted on the faces of the assem¬ 
bly. No doubt Mrs. Cochrane would have enter¬ 
tained her audience for a much longer period had 
not Lady Vermont announced that Miss Hinton 
would sing. 

At the mention of Miss Hinton’s name, John 
Keen hastily turned around and catching sight of 
Margaret made his way to her side and offered 
to turn over the music. Margaret thanked him 
and John escorted her to the piano. 

Margaret Hinton was probably one of the 
sweetest singers in England. On the stage her 
voice would probably have not been powerful 
enough to fill the building, but in a drawing¬ 
room it was perfect. Many there had heard her 
before and sudden silence came over the room as 
she, softly playing the prelude, sang a pretty 
little French love song. “Parceque je vous aime.” 
Her voice faltered on the lines, “Mais nous devons 
restez comme nous somme”; for she was singing 
to John only, and John catching the inflection, 
felt a little throb in his heart for the words of 
the song had been his thoughts for many days 
now. He loved her too much to ask her to share 
a life of poverty. 

Steven was gazing at Margaret as though he 
had seen a ghost; for she was almost the living 
image of his own lost sweetheart, while Lord 
Bitterne was looking at her for an entirely differ¬ 
ent reason. His mad, passionate nature was 


76 


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asserting itself, and to Lord Bitterne Margaret 
seemed very desirable. 

A burst of applause followed the conclusion of 
her song. Margaret now sang “Realization,” and 
when she came to the last verse there were many 
eyes misty with tears. 

And Steven Hargraves had lived again in the 
song. He could feel those dear soft arms around 
his neck; he could see those dear grey eyes again 
and he thanked God that his love for his little 
girl was as strong as ever. 

Again Margaret was encored and replied by 
singing that old American song that will never 
die, “Carry Me Back to Ole Virginia.” At the 
conclusion Mrs. Cochrane approached and warm¬ 
ly congratulated Margaret on having such a lovely 
voice. Of course, according to etiquette Mrs. 
Cochrane was sadly out of place; but the etiquette 
of Mrs. Cochrane was equality, and to her all 
were equal. Margaret then retired and a violinist 
endeavored to interest the company. 

The party was gradually breaking up; for it 
was almost midnight. After Margaret had left, 
Lord Bitterne found time to turn his attention 
to Mary Richards. Mary still loved him and 
found it very hard to act with sang-froid when 
he was near by. 

“My dear Mary, you treat me like a total 
stranger,” said George, “one would never think 
that once we were engaged.” 

“That, of course, my Lord, is a thing of the 
past,” said Mary, “when I was foolish enough to 
imagine that I could marry you.” 

“Mary, Mary,” said George in a bantering 


SIN 


77 


voice, “why the Lordship; won’t you call me 
George as in the old days?” 

“I am afraid, my Lord, that it would not be 
quite the thing,” said Mary smiling. 

“Now look here, Mary, you know perfectly 
well that you care for me more than ever. 
Now don’t you?” 

“Your Lordship must be gifted with a wonder¬ 
ful insight,” she said, and Lord George cursing 
inwardly realized that Mary seemed very deter¬ 
mined not to allow him to make love to her. 

When the last guest had departed Lord Bit- 
terne retired to his room and throwing himself 
on a couch let his thoughts wander to Margaret 
Hinton. “What a sweet girl,” thought Lord 
Bitterne, “I must arrange to know her.” 


IX 


The residents of Cross Keys Passages were 
heartily enjoying themselves. A fight between 
two of the gentler sex was in progress. 

Two ladies with loud voices and bitter invec¬ 
tives had discussed, in a friendly way, of course, 
the ownership of a certain man. The man in ques¬ 
tion was a drunken, lazy loafer, whom one would 
think was best alone; but on this particular day 
he had by some means got hold of a sovereign, 
hence his market value rose high in the estima¬ 
tion of the two ladies mentioned. 

The man being appealed to, made reply to the 
effect that it didn’t make a damn bit of differ¬ 
ence to him and they could both go to hell and 
fight it out. They readily availed themselves of 
his kind permission and were trying to tear each 
other to pieces in a thoroughly business-like way. 
Mr. William Smith, commonly known as Bill 
Booze, had mounted on an empty box and was 
delightedly officiating as referee, and cheerfully 
encouraged first one and then the other. 

The crowd of spectators were at the height of 
their enjoyment, when suddenly Mr. William 
Smith spotted the Reverend John Keen entering 
the Passages. Down jumped William and at the 
imminent risk of being torn to pieces by the 
inflamed combatants hastily separated them. 

“W’y, yer ought to be ashamed of yerselves; 
women, too; w’y don’t yer go ’ome and scrub 
yer ’ouses?” 


78 


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79 


A lady among the spectators remarking in an 
audible voice that they liked living in a pigsty, 
almost raised another riot, when John appeared 
in their midst, and the crowd recognizing that 
the fight was over for the time being gradually 
drifted away until only William and the two 
rivals were left. 

“Good morning, sir! I am glad to see yer. 
Lor* bless yer, sir! the time I ’as ’ere keeping 
things right. These ’ere two women were carry¬ 
ing on something awful when I came up and 
stopped ’em,” said the hypocritical Bill in a 
proud voice. 

One of the ladies started to tell Bill what she 
thought of his double dealing when a wink from 
Bill stopped her. John made both women shake 
hands and promise that hostilities would not be 
renewed in his absence and the two damsels first 
shook hands, and then linked arm in arm went in 
search of the cause of their argument with the full 
determination to finish it on his worthy form. 

“Now, William, I am very pleased to see you 
trying to keep order down here. I am sure that 
it is very creditable of you,” said John. 

William with a sheepish grin said “ ’e ’oped ’e 
knowed his duty. Why, Captain, there is a swell 
lidy comes dahn ’ere very often and I alius lo^ T -~ 
arter her.” 

“A lady from the Church, no doubt,” said John. 

“No, she ain’t. Captain. W’y it’s that lidy 
who used to sing to us aht in Frawnce.” 

“Do you mean Miss Hinton?” said John 
hastily. 

<£ Yes, that’s ’er. Captain, and she is up wif 
Lizzie Smith this blessed minute.” 


80 


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“Show me where I can find her, William,” 
said John in an anxious voice. 

For once in his life John really felt worried. 
Margaret actually here in one of the worst quar¬ 
ters of London; dear God, she might get in¬ 
sulted, perhaps ill-treated, and he realized more 
than ever how very much he loved her. 

The house, or offal bin, in which lived Lizzie 
Smith, was soon reached and without wasting any 
time John entered and found himself in the 
presence of Margaret, and God knows what! 

A filthy heap of old rags in one corner of the 
room and lying on them what was once a young 
girl; now a conglomeration of disease, one cheek 
eaten away and her lips a mass of sores. 

“Margaret! for God’s sake, come away, dear,” 
said John, forgetting in his emotion that as yet 
he had no claim on Margaret. 

“Hush! Mr. Keen, don’t you see that she is 
dying ?” 

John bowed his head in shame, and then for¬ 
getting everything except that a poor young girl 
was dying, he crossed over and knelt by her side 
and spoke to her gently. The girl was too far 
gone to make answer; but there was a light in her 
eyes as she noted John’s look of sympathy that 
told of infinite gratitude. John dared not ask 
her whether she was fit to meet God. He recog¬ 
nized the cruel symptoms and he prayed that the 
Saviour would take this little sister and comfort 
her. Margaret came and knelt by the side of 
John and in her sweet voice sang “Beautiful 
Isle of Somewhere.” 

The poor creature lying there dying looked at 
Margaret in rapture and then in a voice scarcely 


SIN 


81 


a whisper said, “I am so glad that God is taking 
me home,” and then her eyes could not see either 
Margaret or John for she had passed on. 

They knelt there in silent prayer for a few 
minutes and then arose. Margaret was crying 
softly and the heart of John Keen almost break¬ 
ing. John took Margaret by the hand and they 
left the house; but not before he had brought 
out a well-worn purse and extracting his last 
sovereign pressed it into the hands of William 
and told him to engage a woman to take charge 
until he could make arrangements for the re¬ 
moval of the body. 

They passed through Cross Keys Passages and 
out into the sunshine again; for no sun ever 
penetrated Cross Keys Passages. 

“Miss Hinton, you must not come down here 
again,” said John, “why, it is too awful for 
words.” 

“Mr. Keen, I want to do all I can to help my 
fallen sisters, and this little girl you have just 
seen pass into Heaven was once my friend. Six 
months ago she was, like myself, a society enter¬ 
tainer, until she was cruelly betrayed. The man 
was married, and to hide her shame, Lizzie, her 
real name does not matter, gave up h$r singing 
and took to drink. The result you have seen. 
Mr. Keen, why does the woman always suffer?” 

John did not answer for awhile; for he realized 
only too well the truth of Margaret’s question, 
then he said, “Miss Hinton, it is the woman’s turn 
now; but later on it will be her betrayer’s turn, 
and I imagine that God cannot find any punish¬ 
ment great enough for him here; but his time is 
later, and there will be no mercy.” 


82 


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“Mr. Keen,” sobbed Margaret, “why should 
such awful misery exist in this great rich city ? 
These terrible slums surrounded on every side by 
luxurious dwellings where, night after night 
thousands are spent in giving dinners and balls; 
where night after night married women break 
their marriage vows with impunity and still live?” 

“Hush! hush! Miss Hinton, you don’t know 
what you are saying,” said John. “You are 
overwrought.” 

But nevertheless John was beginning to under¬ 
stand that what Margaret said was only too 
true. He had seen things during his short resi¬ 
dence in the parish that made his heart ache. 

“Do you know, Mr. Keen, that the man who 
betrayed Lizzie is also the owner of those 
wretched hovels in Cross Keys? Do you know 
that he is also a member of your Church? And 
Sunday after Sunday he will sit in his pew listen¬ 
ing to the prayers whilst really his eyes are seek¬ 
ing some pretty face in bestial thoughts.” 

“For God’s sake, Miss Hinton, stop!” cried 
John, “if this is true tell me his name and I will 
denounce him openly from the pulpit of the 
Church.” 

“Dear Mr. Keen,” said Margaret, “I am sorry 
that I have caused you pain. Later on I will 
tell you his name; but for the sake of your liveli¬ 
hood please be careful.” 

“Miss Hinton, I would rather die like a dog in 
the gutter than be untrue to my manhood; and 
my heart tells me that I shall very shortly be 
compelled to leave the Church, although God 
knows it will almost break my heart.” 


SIN 


83 


As they were entering her apartment Margaret felt 
that she could no longer contain herself. 

“John, John, don’t talk like that; for if anything 
happened to you I should die.” 

John took Margaret by the hand and in a voice 
broken with emotion said, “Margaret, my little 
Margaret, I love you, dear, better than anything 
else in the world. Will you wait, dear, until I can 
offer you a home?” And the look in Margaret’s 
eyes told John all he wished to know. Then she 
crept into his arms and shyly lifted her lips to 
meet his kiss. 


X 


The knowledge that Mrs. Cochrane was to be a 
guest at the Duke of Renton’s country house made the 
residents of richer London sit up and take notice, and a 
flood of invitations poured into the letter box of the 
Mayfair house, and she and Steven were alluded to in 
public as “those delightful Americans.” 

Mrs. Cochrane was just a little bit disappointed 
with England. She had expected to find a great race 
of men and women whose motto would be honor and 
integrity, and unfortunately for her she had only come 
in contact with a class of rich parasites. True she had 
met one or two people, including the Duke and Duch¬ 
ess, who exemplified the high ideals which her English 
friends in America had given her to understand were 
predominant. But the vast majority, heartless, God¬ 
less, living only for themselves. Mrs. Cochrane was 
disappointed. 

“Well, Steve boy, I guess we don’t have to leave the 
good old U. S. A. to find men and women. I thought 
that when I came over here everybody would be just 
right glad to see me, being as my forefathers were 
English; but gee! Steve, I want to go home again. All 
these funny ways get my goat. Why, yesterday I 
asked that frizzy-headed woman to come in and have 
a cup of coffee at a restaurant and she turned up her 
nose and said, T hope I am a lady!’ That got me 
going and I said 'well marm there’s nothing like hope. 
I am an optimist myself.’ That didn’t seem to please 
her any so I said, ‘goodday’ and came home. What 
she was so sore about I don’t know. I admit that the 
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restaurant wasn’t any too classy but I have been in 
worse, Steve.” 

Poor Steven did not dare to point out the enormity 
of her offense in the eyes of these aristocrats; for the 
restaurant in question happened to be one of the trades¬ 
people’s rendezvous; but at the same time he did feel 
ashamed of the lack of good breeding that so far 
existed in the people who called themselves society. 

Mrs. Cochrane was giving a little party that after¬ 
noon which consisted of two people only—Margaret 
Hinton and John Keen. 

Margaret was the first to arrive and Mrs. Cochrane 
greeted her with a warmth of feeling that made Mar¬ 
garet gasp for breath. “Sit right down here, dearie,” 
said Mrs. Cochrane indicating a chair, “and tell me 
something about this country of yours. I feel like a 
fish out of water, don’t seem to get nowhere.” 

Margaret could not help smiling at Mrs. Cochrane; 
for she realized something of the ordeal that the 
good lady was passing through. 

They were soon busy chatting, or at least Mrs. 
Cochrane was, and Margaret was quite content to 
listen. The wonderful stories that she heard from 
Mrs. Cochrane made Margaret want to visit America. 
Mrs. Cochrane was just telling Margaret a story of a 
round-up on her ranch when Steven, followed by John 
Keen, came into the room. 

“Please don’t let us disturb you,” said Steven, “but 
I happened to meet Mr. Keen outside and we came 
in together.” 

John paid his compliments to Mrs. Cochrane and 
then turned to Margaret and took her outstretched 
hand. Steven who happened to be standing by John 
at the time saw the look that passed between them 
and understood very clearly their relationship. There 


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was a pang at his heart, for it recalled sweetly-sad 
memories. 

Conversation became general and Mrs. Cochrane be¬ 
came deeply interested in some poor little straved 
children, who fortunately had been rescued from death 
in the nick of time by a kindly policeman. “Do you 
mean to tell me, my dear,” said Mrs. Cochrane, “that 
children go hungry in a rich city like this? For land’s 
sake! What are your women-foik doing? Don’t they 
ever get out and try to locate these poor little dears 
instead of letting the police do it? Why, in my coun¬ 
try there ain’t many starving children, I’ll tell the 
world.” 

Mrs. Cochrane could not bring herself to imagine 
for one moment that such a thing as hungry, starving 
children could possibly exist in a city in which resided 
some of the wealthiest people in the world. 

John Keen asked Mrs. Cochrane whether there were 
not neglected children in America, and Mrs. Cochrane 
grew highly indignant at the possibility of any such 
thing. 

“There sure are some folk over there that are con¬ 
tent to live like a stray mule; but believe me there ain’t 
any person wanting for a bite to eat.” 

After all Mrs. Cochrane was quite correct. America 
has her faults, but starving men and women and 
especially little children are a rarity in the land of 
Uncle Sam. 

John invited Mrs. Cochrane to visit with him and 
Mrs. Cochrane expressed her willingness to do so, 
and said “and say Mr. Keen, if a dollar or so is going 
to help any, you will find it right here, let me tell 
you.” 

John thanked Mrs. Cochrane warmly and a tinge 
of shame came into his heart when he thought that a 


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stranger from a far country was offering to do what 
his own countrymen and women were neglecting. 
Mrs. Cochrane now asked Margaret to sing, and she, 
delighted to please this great-hearted American woman, 
sat down at the piano and sang a southern lullaby. 

“My dear,” said Mrs. Cochrane, when Margaret had 
finished her song, “will you come out to America and 
visit me? You see I am pretty lonely now. Poor 
Sam’s gone and I sure would like to have you for a 
daughter, for you are so loving and pretty.” 

Margaret laughingly replied that she would cer¬ 
tainly like to come out to the wonderful country that 
gave birth to Mrs. Cochrane, and perhaps some day 
she would do so. 

“Well, dear, I suppose I must be satisfied with your 
answer; but let me tell you right now, from now on I 
am your friend for life, and Mrs. Cochrane of Burley, 
Texas, is as good as a mother to you any day and 
don’t you forget it. Come right here and kiss me,” 
and Margaret did, not once; but several times. 

The maid now entered bearing the card of Lord 
Bitterne. “Maggie,” said Mrs. Cochrane turning to 
the maid, “you don’t want to waste time bringing me 
bits of paper like this. If I am home, just show the 
folks right in.” 

“Out in my country,” said Mrs. Cochrane, “we just 
naturally walk right in and if the folks are eating, we 
sit down and help them out.” 

Maggie departed and returning, showed Lord Bit¬ 
terne into the room. 

Lord Bitterne greeted Mrs. Cochrane with many 
apologies for not having called sooner, and then turned 
to greet Margaret, congratulating himself on his good 
fortune at finding her there, which was quite unex¬ 
pected. 


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John Keen with some misgivings introduced Lord 
Bitterne to Margaret. 

“I am awfully glad to meet you Miss Hinton/’ said 
his Lordship, “your singing the other evening really 
captivated me, I assure you.” 

Margaret murmured her thanks for his appreci¬ 
ation; but felt decidedly embarrassed at the look of 
admiration she saw in his eyes. Mary Richards was a 
friend of Margaret’s and in confidence she had told 
Margaret to beware of Lord Bitterne, and this advice 
had not been given from any jealous motives; but 
Mary knew something of the weakness of the man she 
loved. 

Lord Bitterne now monopolized Margaret, and 
although both Steven and John would have rather 
that she had never met him they felt that under the 
circumstances the only thing to do was to rescue Mar¬ 
garet from Lord Bitterne’s infatuation. 

To this end they made the conversation as general 
as possible. Mrs. Cochrane again asked Margaret to 
sing. When she had finished singing the maid brought 
in tea, and for the time being Lord Bitterne’s “tete a 
tete” was ended. On Margaret’s rising to take her 
departure his lordship hastily arose and begged per¬ 
mission to see her across the park and Margaret sorely 
against her will gave her consent. 

Margaret was bitterly disappointed. In the first 
place, she did so want John to walk with her; and in 
the second place, she had no desire whatever for the 
company of Lord Bitterne or the class he represented. 

“Well goodbye, dearie, come again,” said Mrs. 
Cochrane, and Margaret bidding them all good after¬ 
noon, left the house in the company of his lordship. 

“Mr. Keen,” said Steven when Margaret had de- 


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parted, “I would like to speak to you in private. Could 
you spare me a few minutes ?” 

John readily consented and begging to be excused, 
Steven escorted John to his room. 

“Sit down, Mr. Keen and light up, I want to tell 
you a story.” 

John sat down and Steven slowly pacing the floor 
commenced. 

“Eight years ago I met a little girl. It did not take 
many days for us to realize that we loved each other. 
In a month we were married, and for seven long happy 
years we just lived for each other. We had two little 
children. The first was a boy and we called him David; 
for like the psalmist, our cup of joy ran over. The 
second was a little girl and we felt that Heaven had 
indeed come down on earth. 

“We were bitterly poor; every dollar I could earn 
seemed to go like magic. How often have I sat and 
dreamed of the day when I could go home at night 
and take my little sweetheart in my arms and tell her 
that I was rich. Every morning when I left the lit¬ 
tle cottage to catch the car to town, she would watch 
me out of sight, and even now I can see her dear 
form as she stood waving her hand. In the evening 
when I returned home she would be watching for me 
and send my little boy to meet his daddy. She had 
always something new to tell me about the children. 
What David had said how Marjorie was trying to 
walk, and when the children were in bed she would 
just creep into my arms and we would speak of our 
great and wonderful love for each other. 

“Then came a day when she fell sick. The doctor 
came and ordered an operation. The operation was 
not successful and a few days later she passed away. 
I thought that the sun had gone out. I cannot tell you 


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how much I loved and still love her; but Mr. Keen, 
my love for her was poor and insipid compared with 
her great pure love for me.” 

John Keen’s eyes were wet and inwardly he won¬ 
dered why God should have robbed Steven and his 
little ones of a wife and mother, and walking up to 
Steven he put his hands on his shoulders and said, 
“God knew best, Mr. Hargraves, and the sun will shine 
again.” 

“Thank you Mr. Keen, I understand your sympathy; 
but I want to tell you right now that I am wonderfully 
happy. I have spoken to my little girl and she bid 
me leave sorrow behind and be happy.” 

John for the moment could not quite understand 
what Steven meant when he said, “I have spoken to my 
little girl”; but Steven told John a marvelous story of 
how he had actually spoken to his little one through 
a medium. 

“Of course, Mr. Keen, you do not believe in such 
things, do you?” 

“No,” said John, “I believe that Satan uses his 
knowledge of our past to impersonate our loved ones, 
and thereby lead us away from God.” 

“Well, Mr. Keen, listen. When my wife died I lost 
complete control of myself. Suicide or hopeless 
abandon were my thoughts then; but today I am try¬ 
ing to lead a Christian life; for when I asked my be¬ 
loved if there was any mortal thing that I could do for 
her sake she answered, 'yes dear, serve God, look after 
my babies and keep yourself pure; for I am waiting 
for you.’ 

“Now Mr. Keen, don’t you think that the devil is 
letting a wonderful opportunity go by in which to 
snatch souls from God? I know hundreds of men and 
women who today are leading a Christ-like life because 


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of the messages they have received from their dear 
ones who have gone before. What do you think, Mr. 
Keen?” 

And for once in his life John could make no answer. 

"I have told you my story, Mr. Keen, because I 
believe that just such another happy union as ours is 
going to be. I am not blind to the fact that Miss 
Hinton is more to you than anything in the world.” 

John bowed his head in acknowledgment. 

“Then, for God’s sake, Mr. Keen, watch over her; 
for I believe that George does not mean to do her any 
good.” 

“If any harm comes to my little girl through him, I 
shall kill him,” said John in a whisper. 


XI 


The Duke of Renton had probably one of the most 
ancient castles to be found in England. It was situated 
in Sussex and centuries had passed over its greystone 
terraces and ivy-clad walls. Lying in the midst of a 
beautiful park with the wooded hills rising behind it 
made a charming view for the artist. To Mrs.Cochrane 
it seemed like a picture out of the history book that 
she studied when she went to school many years ago. 
To Steven, who had a wonderful imagination, he was 
living in the days of Chaucer when knights sallied 
forth in quest of adventure. 

The Duke and Duchess welcomed their visitors with 
that courtly grace so characteristic of real gentlefolk, 
and Mrs. Cochrane realized during her short stay that 
she had met the real English aristocrat at last. 

After dinner they sat and chatted very pleasantly 
and the Duchess told Mrs. Cochrane how her three 
sons had fallen in France, while the old Duke spoke 
with a father’s pride of these boys who had died for 
their country. 

The Duchess insisted that her guests retire early as 
no doubt they were tired after their journey down. 

On being shown to her room the maid was told by 
Mrs. Cochrane that she could go. 

“But Madame, I will undress you!” 

“You bet your life you don’t undress me,” said Mrs. 
Cochrane. “I never knew of such a thing. Who 
ever heard of a strong healthy woman wanting to be 
undressed? If I can’t undress myself then you just 
send for the doctor. I sure will need him.” 

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The maid departed to her quarters, wondering. 

After breakfast the next morning the Duke and 
Duchess escorted their guests over the estate. The 
Duke was very proud of his cattle, as indeed he had 
reason to be; for he owned some of the finest thorough¬ 
breds in the world. 

When Mrs. Cochrane had finished telling the Duke 
what she knew about cattle he marvelled at his igno¬ 
rance. She told him how to tell the age of any steer 
or heifer at a glance, something the Duke had never 
known before; and her remarks on the raising of stock 
made the Duke envy Mrs. Cochrane’s wonderful 
knowledge. 

The Duchess also expressed her surprise. 

“Duchess, did you ever have to get up at four o’clock 
every morning and milk twelve cows?” 

The Duchess hastily disclaimed any such pleasure. 

“Well, Duchess, let me tell you I did this for over 
twenty years. We had at one time over a thousand 
head of cattle and what my Sam didn’t know about 
them ain’t worth knowing.” 

After viewing the grounds they were shown over 
the picture gallery. This did not interest Mrs. Coch¬ 
rane very much; but to Steven it was wonderful. 

“This is the fifth Duke of Renton; he landed with 
Sir Walter Raleigh in Virginia,” and Mrs. Cochrane, 
whose knowledge of history was rather vague asked 
how he liked America. 

“I am sure I am sorry not to be able to tell you, Mrs. 
Cochrane.” 

“Oh well,” replied Mrs. Cochrane, “perhaps he will 
come back some day and tell you all about it. And 
the Duke was too much of a gentleman even to smile. 

The few days at Renton Park went all too quickly 
for both Mrs. Cochrane and Steven, and it was with 


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genuine regret that they bid farewell to their host and 
hostess. 

They reached London early in the evening and 
Steven suggested that they take in a play. Mrs. 
Cochrane was nothing loth so after they had finished 
dinner, Mrs. Cochrane always said supper, they went 
to the ‘ Gaiety. Steven remembered his promise to 
Mary Richards that he would visit the Gaiety and 
see her act. Mary was certainly a splendid actress and 
round after round of applause greeted her appearance. 
Mrs. Cochrane thought it all very wonderful and tried 
to imagine the surprise and delight of her friends in 
Burley, Texas, if they had only come over with her. 

Between the acts a note was brought to Steven and 
begging to be excused he opened it and read: 

“1 happened to notice you in the stalls this evening 
and wondered if you could find time to see me after 
the performance as I have something important which 
I should like to tell you. 

“Cordially yours, 

“Mary Richards” 

At first Steven had a faint idea that Miss Richards 
was trying to vamp him; but remembering something 
of her gentle nature he banished such thoughts as un¬ 
worthy and wondered what on earth Mary could pos¬ 
sibly want to see him about. 

He sent a verbal answer by the attendant, who 
brought the note and was waiting for an answer, that 
he would meet Miss Richards at the stage door after 
the performance; but asked her to allow him a half- 
hour’s grace, as he first wished to escort Mrs. Coch¬ 
rane home. A reply from Mary reached him just be¬ 
fore the performance ended, to the effect that she 


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would not leave the theatre before twelve, so that 
Steven was able to take Mrs. Cochrane home and get 
back to the Gaiety in plenty of time. 

Steven had not been waiting very long when Mary 
Richards appeared. She was a very pretty girl and 
had received more offers of marriage than the average 
star; but Mary was as wise as she was pretty and no 
amount of flattery could ever turn her head. She had 
loved one man, Lord Bitterne, and still loved him, and 
her smiling face hid a very sad and aching heart. Mary 
knew that Lord Bitterne would never make a fit hus¬ 
band for any girl. His mad infatuation for women 
would never allow him to keep true to one; for Mary 
had heard stories that had made her blush to think that 
she still loved him. 

Steven greeted Mary in his usual gentle way and she 
thanked him for granting her request. 

“Now, Mr. Hargraves/' said Mary when her car 
drove up, “will you please escort me home; for I want 
to ask a favor of you?” 

Steven expressed his delight at being able to render 
a service to such a talented artist. Miss Richards lived 
in the Maida Hill district with her mother, a gentle, 
white-haired old lady, who greeted Steven very kindly. 

“Mother dear, will you entertain Mr. Hargraves for 
a few moments while I remove my hat and coat?” said 
Mary. 

Steven was shown into a daintily furnished drawing¬ 
room and Mary soon reappeared. 

“Now, Mother dear, you must be tired I am sure, 
so I will bid you goodnight,” and fondly kissing her, 
Mrs. Richards retired after courteously extending an 
invitation to Steven to call again sometime. 

“Mr. Hargraves,” said Mary when they were alone, 
“I know that you are a friend of Lord Bitterne.” 


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Steven bowed. “Did he ever tell you Mr. Hargraves, 
that we were once engaged to be married ?” 

“Yes,” replied Steven, “and I understood from 
George that the engagement was not entirely broken 
off.” 

Poor Mary, she wished with all her heart that such 
was the case. 

“No, no, Mr. Hargraves that is a thing of the past 
I shall never marry any man, least of all Lord Bitterne; 
but I asked you to come here to tell you something 
far more serious than that. Do you know that Lord 
Bitterne is trying to make love to a very sweet girl?” 

Steven expressed a hope that Lord Bitterne would be 
successful. 

“Oh, I don’t mean that he is making honest love,” 
said Mary in a bitter voice, “would to God he were. 
He is simply trying to make a conquest of a girl 
of whom he is not worthy. Mr. Hargraves, it is em¬ 
barrassing for me to have to tell you this; but I 
know that the lady in question is known to you. For 
God’s sake warn her.” 

“Known to me,” said Steven, “what is her name?” 
But before Mary could utter it Steven had guessed. 

Margaret Hinton, that sweet woman whom John 
Keen loved. Steven rose to his feet and paced the 
room in an agitated manner. 

“Miss Richards, thank you a thousand times for 
telling me this; but I know that Lord Bitterne will not 
be tolerated for one minute by Miss Hinton; for she 
already loves and is loved by one of the finest gentle¬ 
men I have ever met.” 

“I am glad, so very glad to think that dear Margaret 
is going to be happy; but oh God! why must I say it 
Mr. Hargraves! When Lord Bitterne desires a woman 
he will use any means under the sun, fair or foul, to 


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obtain her. I could tell you of one action of his that 
would horrify you; yes, I feel that I must tell you. 

“Two years ago he made love to a little girl and 
she rejected his advances; shortly afterwards she left 
England and her baby, his baby, was born abroad. 
Mr. Hargraves, that poor little girl was drugged and 
ruined by Lord Bitterne, and I feel worried for Mar- 
garet.” 

Steven’s face was as white as chalk. “Miss Rich¬ 
ards, if this is true, why is it that Lord Bitterne is such 
a lovable man? I think quite a lot of George. True, 
I know that he is hopelessly infatuated when pretty 
women are about; but I give you my word of honor I 
never associated him with any actiqn that could be 
termed unmanly.” 

Mary came close to Steven and putting her hand on 
his shoulder she said, “Mr. Hargraves, at heart Lord 
Bitterne is one of the best men in the world; but his 
body has assumed control over his better self. It is a 
disease and only God knows how to cure it. There 
never yet was a more typical case of Dr. Jekyll 
and Mr. Hyde.” 

“Miss Richards, I will see George the first thing in 
the morning and warn him; and if I have the influence 
I used to have, I don’t think that you need worry any 
more about Miss Hinton.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Hargraves, please do not let him 
know that I told you this; I hope that you may save 
Lord Bitterne from himself.” 

How Steven reached home and at what time he never 
knew. His thoughts were first of the little girl sleep¬ 
ing so peacefully in that far-off country grave. Then 
of Margaret who reminded him so much of her; and 
his very soul felt sick at the possibility that little 
Margaret Hinton was in danger because of a moral 
degenerate. 


XII 


That night Steven’s slumbers were disturbed by hor¬ 
rible dreams. He saw his little sweetheart struggling 
in the arms of another man and he would awake in a 
bath of perspiration. Again he would hear her dear, 
sweet voice calling for help and would try in vain to 
locate her. 

As soon as the dawn was showing her faint light 
Steven arose and lighting a cigar spent the time in 
soliloquizing. 

“What a beautiful world this would be,” thought 
Steven, “if only one could banish the evil things that 
contaminate. George, for instance, a fine, manly fel¬ 
low and yet a slave to his passions, slowly but surely 
going down the steep path that ends in hell! No— 
something even worse than that. Foulness, disease, 
loathing, a thing that is to be shunned.” 

Steven remembered a very dear friend of his whose 
life had been very much dike that of Lord Bitterne’s. 
He had started with splendid prospects; but his sensual 
desires had led him step by step to women of loose vir¬ 
tues. Then it was any girl, good or bad, married or 
single, that he had tried to corrupt. He did eventually 
marry a very charming girl who died giving birth to 
a child that was so horribly deformed that the nurse 
thanked God when the doctor told her it was impossible 
for the little one to live more than a few hours. 

He could picture the last sad scene when he stood 
by the bedside of his friend and yet dared not clasp 
him by the hand; and the look of horror and remorse 
in the eyes of the dear boy who once put his little arms 
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around the neck of his mother and lisped her name in 
his baby way, haunted Steven for many years after¬ 
wards. 

Steven had resolved to try and prevent any such fate 
happening to one that cared to call him friend. Deep 
in his heart he still had an idea that his friend was a 
man of honor. True he had let him run wild in New 
York; but he had done so with the intention of sicken¬ 
ing the soul of this boy. Now he blamed himself for 
his folly. 

“Well,” said Steven to himself, “I will do my best 
to bring George to his senses.” 

As soon as breakfast was over Steven went to Park 
Lane. The butler, who knew Steven, informed him 
that his lordship was still in bed; but bade Steven 
wait until he had ascertained whether his lordship 
could see him. 

Lord Bitterne had arrived home that morning at 
four-thirty after spending the night with a lady of 
more than doubtful character. When he was suf¬ 
ficiently awakened to recognize the name of his visitor 
he gave orders to have him shown up immediately. 
George gave Steven a hearty welcome and in his boy¬ 
ish way chided him for his apparent neglect. 

He looked so innocent and fresh as he lay propped 
up by many pillows that for a minute Steven almost 
persuaded himself that this man was incapable of any 
action that was unclean or base. 

Steven apologized for his absence by informing 
George, that in company with Mrs. Cochrane, he had 
spent a few days at Renton Park. 

“Now, Steve, old man, I accept your apology and 
you must spend the remainder of the day with me. 
What is the time ? Only ten o’clock; what little fairy 
hauled you out of bed so early, eh Steve ? You have 



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been in England three weeks and I have only seen you 
four times. I’ll tell you what, this afternoon we will 
run down to Maidenhead. I know some charming 
girls there—” And George would have gone on talk¬ 
ing in his eager way had he not been brought to a 
sudden stop by: 

“Have you found any trace of your mother?” 
Steven spoke in a soft voice and yet it seemed to fill 
the room. For a minute there was a silence and 
then: 

“Dear God, I was forgetting about my mother.” 
All the gaiety had gone out of Lord Bitterne’s voice 
and he seemed a very sad and lonely boy. 

“Thanks, Steven, for reminding me. I will get 
busy again this morning. I had almost forgotten the 
fact that possibly my dear mother is alive.” 

“George, I did not come here to ask you that; but 
something that to you and others is a million times 
more important.” 

Lord Bitterne looked at Steven with amazement. 

“George, why are you annoying Miss Hinton with 
your attentions, and what is your object?” 

“Why, Steve, I believe that you are jealous. My 
dear boy I like Miss Hinton very much and surely I 
am at liberty to pay her attention, and my object is just 
to make friends. As for annoying her, there will be 
time enough to answer that question when the lady we 
are discussing informs me that my attentions are un¬ 
welcome.” 

“I am glad to hear you talk like that, George. 
Please accept my apologies for speaking to you in the 
way I did; but I want you to know that Miss Hinton 
is practically engaged to a splendid man.” 

“I say, old chap,” said Lord George in an anxious 
voice, “don’t tell me that I am out of the running; for 



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believe me I think that Miss Hinton is the most charm¬ 
ing girl that I ever met; and you know my dear 
Steven I never poach.” 

The sincere way in which he uttered these last words 
made Steven feel quite sure that Miss Richards had 
been mistaken in her estimate of his friend. “Well, 
George old boy, I have always held you to be a real 
gentleman and if my remarks have hurt you at all pray 
accept my sincere apologies.” 

“No apologies necessary, Steve, I know what a 
chivalrous knight you are; but candidly, old chap, 
don’t you worry about me. I know that I have not 
always played the game; but honestly I am not so black 
as you imagine. Now spend the day with me and let 
us fancy that we are back in your good old New York.” 

Steven willingly promised to stay the day with his 
friend. George asked Steven to wait in the library 
and amuse himself with books while he performed the 
usual morning bath and breakfast. 

To Steven, there were few places in the world where 
he would rather pass an hour and in a few minutes 
after being shown into the library he was deeply im¬ 
mersed in Carlyle’s French Revolution. 

It came as a surprise to him when Lord Bitterne 
appeared and informed Steven that it was nearly 
one o’clock. “So come, Steve, we will drop in at the 
club for lunch. I can introduce you to a lot of amus¬ 
ing fellows and some at least you will be glad to meet.” 

As the afternoon was so fine Lord George decided 
that they would walk and they made their way to Picca¬ 
dilly. George constantly raised his hat en route to 
various ladies, some of whom gave him a knowing 
smile and again that little devil, doubt troubled Steven. 

The club to which Lord Bitterne took Steven was 
one of the most cosmopolitan in London and needless 


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to say was always well patronized. Here one could 
meet a man from almost any quarter of the globe. 
Notwithstanding its heterogeneous membership it 
ranked as one of the best in London. 

They went immediately to the dining-room and the 
steward placed them at a table where two other gentle¬ 
men had already started luncheon. 

One of these gentlemen in question happened to be 
the Reverend Robert Stone while the other Lord Bit- 
terne introduced to Steven as a Mr. Molstein. Steven 
immediately took an immense dislike to him. 

He was one of those heavy, dark-featured gentle¬ 
men, whose eyes have a crafty, bestial look. The 
sort of a man that one would not care to introduce 
to his wife or sister. 

He greeted Lord Bitterne in a friendly manner and 
it became apparent to Steven that Mr. Molstein was a 
most unsuitable companion for George. Steven got 
into conversation with Mr. Stone and watched with 
interest the brisk business-like way in which the Rever¬ 
end Robert ate his lunch. 

The Vicar had long since come to the conclusion that 
to eat and talk at the same time is a sin; therefore he 
made but little attempt to converse very briskly until 
his stomach told him that it was overloaded, when he 
breathed a sigh of regret and lighting a cigarette pro¬ 
ceeded to become somewhat loquacious. 

“By the way, Mr. Hargraves, have you attended our 
Church yet?” 

Steven replying in the negative the Vicar made a 
lengthy speech on the beauty of holiness which made 
Steven feel as though he were a criminal just discov¬ 
ered in the act of breaking open the missionary box. 

“Yes, yes, my dear sir,” said the Mr. Stone, “we 
must remember that the Church of Christ is the sal- 


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vation of our country; and we must always bear in 
mind this one fact, that the Church as it is today is our 
hope and our guide throughout the stormy path of 
life.” 

Steven wondered. 

“By the way, Stone,” said Lord George, breaking in, 
“I have far more wine in my place than I need, if you 
would care for any you know.” 

“No, no, my Lord, I thank you but when the war 
broke out and I by God’s grace could see into the 
future, I realized that it would be well to stock up and 
I may say that my cellar is well filled. He who neglects 
to provide for his own house is worse than an infidel 
you know, Mr. Hargraves.” 

The only thing that Mr. Hargraves knew at that 
moment was, that the Vicar was the most selfish old 
humbug under the sun and wondered how it was pos¬ 
sible for such men ever to be allowed to call themselves 
servants of God. 

The Vicar became somewhat sleepy and conversa¬ 
tion was carried on between Lord George and Mr. 
Molstein. 

Steven asked permission to take a seat in the window 
where he could watch the steady stream of traffic as 
it bore past the club. He also was sleepy, and noting 
that the Vicar had already fallen asleep he let his 
head drop on his breast and dozed. 

He awoke with a sudden start for he could swear 
that someone had uttered the name of Margaret Hin¬ 
ton. “Funny,” thought Steven, “why there is no one 
here that could know her sufficiently well to speak of 
her in public,” for with the exception of Steven, the 
Vicar and the two in conversation at the table, the 
room was empty. Steven was just nodding his head 
again when he heard quite plainly, “Tut, tut, my Lord, 


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every girl has her price and this Margaret Hinton will 
fall like the rest.” 

Steven only had one arm but in the twinkling of 
an eye he had Molstein by the collar and was shaking 
him as a terrier shakes a rat. 

George, with difficulty, separated them and asked 
Steven what in the world he meant by assaulting his 
friend, while Molstein, his flabby face a dirty yellow, 
slowly wiped away the perspiration that oozed from his 
forehead. 

“I have only one hand,” said Steven, “but unless 
that miserable cad apologizes for his filthy talk re¬ 
garding Miss Hinton I will beat him to a jelly.” 

Molstein with a sickly smile apologized and said, 
“I had no idea that she was a friend of yours, I was 
just discussing the lady with his Lordship.” 

“That’s a damned lie, Molstein,” said George, “I 
only asked you what you thought of her and your 
opinion is both degrading and insulting to a lovely 
woman.” 

As a matter of fact George was deeply interested in 
what Molstein had told him, but, as on several other 
occasions, his manhood had awakened in time. 

George bade Molstein an abrupt farewell and taking 
Steven by the arm they left the club. 

“Now, I wonder,” thought Molstein, “how in the 
Dickens I am to make Lord Bitterne bite. I know that 
he is enamoured of the girl and I think that I could 
manage it for him. It will be worth a thousand pounds 
to me if it comes off; but who in the devil is this fiery 
American? Why don’t they stay in their own coun¬ 
try?” And with his feelings very much ruffled he 
took his departure. 

Steven spent the remainder of the day with his 


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105 


friend and they parted at midnight with a hearty hand¬ 
shake and protestations of friendship. 

On parting from Steven, Lord Bitterne retired to 
his bedroom and proceeded to undress. He was in the 
act of removing his collar when his gaze wandered to 
a cheap print he had purchased in Paris. It was not a 
pretty picture by any means, just one of those common 
prints that appeal to the sensual appetite. The title 
was “Honi soit qui mal-y pense.” He wondered 
whether the artist had the failings of mankind in view 
when he drew that picture or, whether some evil spirit 
desiring to corrupt humanity by holding a flaming 
match to its magazine of impulse, had implanted this, 
and other pictures of like nature in the imagination of 
creative brains. A small still voice said, “be a man, 
banish such thoughts”; but his body answered, “I can¬ 
not; all my life I have so cultivated my lower nature 
that the seed of sensual desire immediately takes root.” 

A few minutes later he left the house and rapidly 
wended his way westward to the district of night 
clubs. 


XIII 


In England the month of September is one of the 
most charming months of the year. So thought John 
Keen as he wended his way over the park one fine 
morning. The Reverend Mr. Stone had asked him 
to call regarding an important matter and John was 
now walking in the direction of the vicarage. Previ¬ 
ous experience had taught him that to visit his Vicar 
before eleven A. M. was simply wasting time; so 
therefore he took his leisure. 

The Vicar was in his study when John arrived and 
as usual did not attempt to rise when John entered, 
but made the excuse of fatigue. As a matter of fact it 
would have really been painful for Robert Stone to 
rise to his feet. He had overloaded his stomach to 
such an alarming extent that his digestive organs would 
have seriously rebelled had he attempted to override 
their warnings, which of late had become many and 
frequent. 

“My dear boy/’ began the Vicar, “as you know I 
have not been feeling quite well lately and I am afraid 
that I must take a short vacation. As a general rule 
I do not take my holidays until October, but the 
doctors have ordered me a complete change; so I have 
decided to take a fortnight at my place in Hampshire. 
I am leaving tomorrow morning and I would like to 
give you a few instructions regarding your duties while 
I am away.” 

John expressed his regret at the indisposition of his 
Vicar and willingly offered to perform any additional 
duties that he might see fit to bestow on him. 

106 


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107 


“Thank you, my dear boy; but I am glad to say I 
have no extra work for you. As you know my posi¬ 
tion in this diocese cannot be readily filled, unless of 
course it was by the bishop.” 

The Reverend Robert was right. It would take an 
extraordinary gluttonous, selfish, old hypocrite to fill 
his place. Indeed it was doubtful if such a person 
could be found. 

“No, no, my boy,” continued the old gormandizer, 
“I am conscious of my abilities and have no desire to 
thrust on anyone, least of all the nephew of my old 
friend, such arduous duties which I must in duty to 
my parishioners perform.” 

John bowed and marvelled. 

“But I just asked you to call to tell you that it will 
be necessary" for you to take the evening service this 
Sunday, and I thought that a little fatherly advice 
would not come amiss. For instance, my dear boy, in 
preaching to such a congregation as assembles at St. 
Martha’s, you must always remember that you have 
the elite; and it is never necessary to profane their ears 
with the same sort of story that you would naturally 
preach to the lower classes.” 

“Do you mean to say, sir,” said John, “that the 
congregation of St. Martha’s are all earnest Christian 
men and women?” 

“Precisely,” replied the Vicar. 

“Then,” said John, “let me tell you sir, that some 
of the vilest sinners that this world ever produced are 
members of your church. I did not join the Church of 
Christ to serve fashion or society, but to speak the 
gospel of my Master.” 

“Of course, of course,” said the Vicar, hastily be¬ 
traying a most uncomfortable demeanor, “but my dear 
boy, the gospel is pleasant, never unkind.” 


108 


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“Quite true sir. Then why ask me to differentiate 
between two classes of people? My knowledge of the 
gospel is that Christ came to condemn evil not to make 
friends with it.” 

The Vicar was still more uncomfortable. 

“Yes, yes, my boy, I know, but what I mean is, do 
not tell your congregation to do this and that; be¬ 
cause I can assure you it would create a very bad feel¬ 
ing and I should not like to think that such a promising 
young man as John Keen would spoil his career by an 
act of indiscretion. So there, my boy, I am sure that 
I can rely on you to be discreet.” 

John felt the utter futility of replying to such blas¬ 
phemy, so he held his peace. 

“I will probably be back before the following Sun¬ 
day; but I know that I can rely on your good work 
in the meantime.” 

John took his departure and could have wept with 
shame when he thought of the hideous mockery 
lurking beneath the cloak of so-called Christianity. 

On leaving the vicarage, John decided that he would 
pay a visit to Cross Keys. 

He had been very successful in his work there and 
had a made a score of friends. But oh! the bitterness 
of poverty. John had seen hunger in its ghastly 
work, disease unchecked and had listened to the cry 
of starving babies. All John had in the world was his 
miserable stipend and that was spent almost before he 
received it. He never desired wealth for himself; 
“but,” thought John, “if only I were rich enough to 
buy Cross Keys Passages, tear them down, and send its 
residents away into some place in the country. How 
my heart yearns to be able to feed these little children, 
yes,” thought John in great bitterness, “even these 
things would be simple if only one-twelfth of the con- 


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109 


gregation of St. Martha’s were Christians.” John 
had never forgotten the death of Lizzie Smith and the 
wretched story which Margaret had told him. 

As the thought of Margaret came to John he felt 
wonderfully happy. That very morning he had re¬ 
ceived a letter from Frank Greymarsh. Frank wrote 
a most optimistic letter. He was located in Pennsyl¬ 
vania, where his father held the principal interest 
in the iron industry of his district. 

After telling John about the splendid outdoor life, 
and the glorious freedom, he concluded by saying, “if 
at any time you want to live, come out here to tlhis 
wonderful country, John, you need never starve. 
There is always plenty of work and I can give you a 
good start, so don’t worry over your future.” And 
John saw in these last lines visions of Margaret as his 
wife; for he knew that before long the so-called Church 
and he would part company.” And yet, he thought, 
“I would have died in defense of Her purity not two 
months ago.” 

On reaching Cross Keys he was greeted by his faith¬ 
ful William. Money was scare for William and he 
was just setting forth on a pilgrimage in the hope of 
meeting some benevolent disperser of free pints when 
he saw John. 

“Good morning, Captain, I was expecting yer this 
morning, so I just ’ung around in ’opes you’d be 
cornin’.” 

“I thank you, William. That is very kind of you I 
am sure. Now tell me, how is Mrs. Lashword?” 

“W’y, to tell yer the truf, I don’t think that she 
will ’ang on much longer.” 

“Dear me,” said John, “I am sorry to hear that. 
I was rather hoping that she would be improved.” 

“Well, Captain, ’tain’t any use ’anging on when you 


110 


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ain’t wanted. She’ll be better off anyway. W’y, 
there’s a lidy there nah ’elping ’er a bit.” 

“A lady,” said John anxiously, “not—” 

“No Cap, not ’er. This is some old bird; but she’s 
a goer.” 

John took his way to the filthy pen where a poor 
woman was dying of a wasting disease brought on by 
poverty and neglect. To his amazement when he en¬ 
tered he was greeted by no other person that Mrs. 
Cochrane. 

“Sure, come in Parson, but it would be nicer to say 
keep out.” 

Mrs. Cochrane had her skirts pinned up and was 
busy wielding a mop. 

“I ain’t trying to raise the dirt any,” said Mrs. 
Cochrane, “that’s beyond me, but I am just trying to 
lay the dust.” 

The poor little woman huddled up on some old rags 
in the corner was watching Mrs. Cochrane with some¬ 
thing like devotion. Mrs. Cochrane did not tell John 
that a quarter of an hour before she had taken the 
woman in her arms in spite of the filthy rags and cried 
over her. As for Mrs. Lashwood it was years ago 
since she had received a kind word or look; and to her, 
Mrs. Cochrane was nothing less than an angel. 

“Now, Parson,” said Mrs. Cochrane, “you go out 
and get me a doctor and get him right quick.” 

John departed on his errand, adding to his memory 
one other act of this lovable American woman. 

During his absence, and while Mrs. Cochrane was 
trying to perform the impossible feat of opening the 
window so that a little air, which even Mrs. Cochrane 
would not call fresh, could get into the room, someone 
came up the stairs and into the room. Such a man— 
dirty, unkempt, and well under the influence of liquor. 


SIN 


111 


“God blimey, what the ’ell is this ’ere world 
a-comin’ to? ’Ere’s my old woman wif company. 
Good afternoon, ma’m, and what can I do fer yer lidy- 
ship?” 

“Are you the guy that leaves this poor little girl 
here to starve while you fill your belly with filthy 
beer, you—” 

“Nah, nah, come off it, I tell yer come off it. Me 
and my Sal understand each other, don’t we mate ?” 

Old man Lashwood did not know what he was up 
against. He was speedily to find out, for Mrs. Coch¬ 
rane let her indignation get the upper hand. She 
made one dive at this wretch with the mop; it caught 
old man Lashwood fairly in the face and a stream of 
water almost as thick as soup ran down his neck. 

That settled him. If the mop had been dry he would 
perhaps have faced the music. But water, ugh! why it 
was many months since his flesh had felt its wetness; 
so old man Lashwood choking with profanity made his 
way into the passages and contented himself with the 
knowledge that after this mad woman had left he 
would be able to go back and take revenge on his dying 
wife. 

John soon returned with a doctor and it did not 
take him five seconds to sum up—“perhaps a week, no 
more, last stages of consumption.” 

“Sure, ain’t there anything that can be done to make 
her more comfortable?” said Mrs. Cochrane. 

“Hardly necessary, is it?” said the doctor, for this 
was no uncommon case to him. 

“I asked you a question,” said Mrs. Cochrane, “and 
I am just waiting for an answer.” 

“Well, in that case,” said the doctor, “you might 
possibly prolong life some three or four weeks if you 
could get her away to the seaside.” 


112 


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“Parson,” said Mrs. Cochrane, “I don’t know much 
about this country, but tell me which is the nearest 
seaside that this man is speaking about.” 

“Southend,” replied John, “is the nearest.” 

“I might tell you, my dear lady,” said the doctor, 
“that it will cost you in the neighborhood of fifty 
pounds to get this woman down to Southend. In the 
first place you would have to take her all the way by 
private ambulance; and even when you reach there 
you would have to pay a good price for her care, be¬ 
cause if you are going through with this thing you 
must have a trained nurse night and day.” 

“Money?” said Mrs. Cochrane bitterly, “why, 
I would give all my money right now if I could save 
this poor girl,” and going over to the bed she again 
lifted the wasted form of Mrs. Lashwood and kissed 
her. 

John smiled, but the doctor marvelled. 

“Tell me, Mr. Keen, who owns these wretched pig 
pens ?” asked Mrs. Cochrane 

“I don’t know,” said John sadly. 

“I wish I knew,” she replied, “because if I did know 
I would just go straight to them and say something that 
they had never heard before.” 

William Smith, loafing around outside was sum¬ 
moned by John Keen and asked if he knew whether 
the husband of Mrs. Lashwood was about. 

“ ’E is, sir, but ’e ain’t exactly sober; anyways ’e 
wouldn’t come in ’ere. That lidy tried to blind ’im 
just now.” 

“Blind him,” said Mrs. Cochrane indignantly, “pity 
he didn’t go blind before he ever cast his eyes on this 
poor, dear girl. Say, friend, who owns these cow¬ 
sheds?” 

“W’y, as a matter of fac’, Mr. Molstein owns ’em, 


SIN 


113 


all except the two pubs, and they is owned by Mrs. 
Stone.” 

“Do you mean the wife of the Reverend Mr. Stone, 
William?” said John Keen. 

“Yes, that’s ’er.” 

“My God,” said John, “my God.” 

“Don’t you worry God just yet, Parson, and leave 
that boss of yours to me; but when can I reach this 
Molstein guy?” 

“Well,” said William, “ ’e is out of town just nah, 
but I think ’e will be back next Wednesday.” 

“Then,” said Mrs. Cochrane, “I shan’t be here next 
Wednesday, so don’t you interfere till I come back. 
I am just going to stay with this dear girl.” 

Ten days afterwards Sally Lashwood died at South- 
end with the salt breeze fanning her wasted cheeks, 
and her husband, brought down by Steven Hargraves, 
held her hand and called her Sal. And Sally passed 
away into the glory of God happy; yes happier than 
she had ever been in her life before. 


i 


XIV 


John Keen was a bitter disappointment to the con¬ 
gregation of St. Martha’s. The church had been par¬ 
ticularly well filled, anticipating something really good 
from this splendid looking young man, and behold he 
had preached, not to them but at them. 

John had taken for his text, “As much as ye do 
this unto the least of my brethren,” and in an earnest 
voice had pleaded with those present to come to the 
help of the suffering people who like derelicts were 
aimlessly drifting. He spoke of the cry of little chil¬ 
dren, the hunger of women, and the dire need existing 
right in the parish of St. Martha’s. 

But John was preaching to a class of people who 
had long since come to the conclusion that the poor 
were a necessary evil. Indeed, there were a few who 
actually expressed the view that to help the poor was 
entirely contrary to the teachings of Christ, while 
others blamed trade-unions and strikes and said, 

“serves them jolly well right, the Bolshevik Blight- 

__ )) 

ers. 

So John was placed on the black book of practically 
every saint who had heard him preach. But there was 
one who loved him for his manly courage. Margaret, 
who had noticed the apathy and indifference with 
which his sermon had been received, wept silently as 
she knelt for the closing benediction. 

She waited for John, for it was a regular custom 
now to meet him every Sunday evening, and they 
would take a bus ride to the outskirts of the city and 
back again. 


114 


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115 


John knew that soon he would have to leave the 
Church, and he saw no prospect of calling Margaret 
his wife. His consolation of late, however, was that 
the offer of Frank Greymarsh was always open; so 
perhaps after all things were not so black as they 
might be. And Margaret’s heart was full of longing, 
knowing that until he was absolutely in a good position 
John would never marry her; and yet all these things 
were forgotten during these Sunday evening rides. 

“John, dear,” said Margaret, “I think that your 
sermon was wonderful, and I am sure that God will 
help these poor people.” 

John turned his face towards Margaret and smiled. 

“Thank you, dear, I am glad that you liked it; but 
dear, the congregation took it very ill. I could see the 
looks of disdain as I pleaded for help. Surely there 
must be a little love left in the heart of society.” 

“I am afraid, John, that there is very little left. 
Self first, second and third seems to be their password. 
You have not made any friends tonight, dear, but 
you must always speak the truth, and God will help you 
to succeed,” and with a little sob Margaret clung to 
his hand. 

“Don’t worry, little girl, the future is before us and 
I know that some day I shall succeed in life; but I am 
afraid, dear, that it is only a question of weeks now 
when I shall leave the Church forever.” 

The remainder of the ride was passed in silence, 
each thinking of the other. On alighting at Hyde 
Park, they were delighted to meet Steven Hargraves. 
Steven was particularly happy at that moment, for he 
had received news from New York that an influential 
publishing house would be pleased to accept his services 
in the editorial department, and as the salary was 
quite generous, Steven felt very happy. 


116 


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Steven knowing something of John's finances had 
been wondering what he could do to help him. He 
knew how much these two loved each other and 
nothing would have given him more pleasure than to 
see John in a position to marry. 

The first thought that came to Steven as he saw 
them was, “Why doesn’t this man throw up his 
Church and come out to America with me, where he 
will get a chance?” For he had long since found out 
that to succeed in the Church depended on one’s social 
relations; in other words, the Church and society were 
very closely related. 

Steven told them about his offer and acceptance. 
“I do wish, Miss Hinton,” he said, “that you could per¬ 
suade Mr. Keen to come out to America. I know 
scores of openings where a man like Mr. Keen would 
succeed.” 

Margaret turned a flushed and happy face to John 
and waited for his answer. 

“Thank you, Mr. Hargraves, I may accept your kind 
offer of assistance sooner than you expect,” said John. 

“I guess you would be doing the right thing, Mr. 
Keen, so don’t worry about your work now. I can see 
how things are. I am feeling lonely just now; Mrs. 
Cochrane is down at Southend. Could you two people 
come and have some supper with me?” The pressure 
of Margaret’s hand decided John, so they accepted 
Steven’s invitation. 

There is a very select little cafe on Pall Mall that is 
patronized chiefly by the gentlefolk who cannot afford 
to keep a good cook. Steven had found the place by 
chance and regularly took his meals there during the 
absence of Mrs. Cochrane. As the evening was well 
advanced it was easy to get a table to themselves and 
Margaret at her host’s invitation ordered the supper. 


SIN 


117 


They were very happy, these three, chatting away as 
though they had not a care in the world. They were 
just thinking of rising to go when a disturbance took 
place at the other end of the room. A girl had 
screamed and a man’s voice was heard trying to pacify 
her. All his entreaties, however, seemed to be fruit¬ 
less; for the girl, suddenly springing from the table at 
which she was seated ran towards the door. On catch- 
ing sight of John Keen, however, she came up to him 
and in a frightened sobbing voice asked him to protect 
her. 

Margaret arose and taking the girl by the hand bade 
her sit down. John looked in the direction from 
whence the girl had come and was surprised to see 
Lord Bitterne coming towards them. 

“Oh, I say, you know, awful nuisance and all that 
but I can assure you that there is a mistake.” 

A chilly silence greeted Lord Bitterne’s remarks. 

“George, how can you explain the distress of this 
young lady?” inquired Steven. 

“Why,” said George with an embarrassed look, “this 
young lady consented to come to supper and I was 
just a little bit foolish and wanted to kiss her. You 
know how silly I am, Steven.” 

“My Lord,” said John, “we shall have much pleas¬ 
ure in seeing this young lady to her home.” 

Lord Bitterne bowed and calling the waiter paid his 
bill and departed. 

“Now who ever would have thought,” said Lord 
Bitterne to himself as he departed on his way, “that 
this little chit of a girl would object to being kissed? 
I wish to goodness that I had never seen her silly face. 
Damn it! that Hinton girl was there too; after this I 
shall be completely ignored and I would do anything 
rather than let her think ill of me.” 


118 


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Had Lord Bitterne known it, he was already dis¬ 
trusted by Margaret; indeed she thought him the per¬ 
sonification of all that was weak in man. She knew 
the story of the little girl that he had ruined. 

After Lord Bitterne left the cafe the girl became 
more calm and told them how she had met him at a 
dance and had promised to take supper with him that 
evening and then in a voice of shame she tried to tell 
them of his Lordship’s endeavors to kiss her. 

They all left the cafe together and Steven called a 
taxi and gave the chauffeur orders to take the girl to 
her home. She was nervous and hysterical, but she 
had, at any rate, received a lesson that would not be 
forgotten. 

Steven parted from John and Margaret at Park 
Corner, for much as he would have liked to remain in 
their society, he could anticipate their desire to be 
together. 

John and Margaret walked slowly through the Park 
both thinking of the scene they had witnessed that 
evening. 

“By the way, Margaret, I have often thought of that 
poor girl who died in Cross Keys.” 

“Do you mean Lizzie Smith?” said Margaret. 

“Yes,” replied John, “and I want you to give me the 
name of the miserable wretch who was responsible for 
her death.” 

“John, dear, nothing matters now. She has gone to 
heaven. Let matters rest, God will punish him.” 

“You are right, dear, I should have forgotten it, 
but I was thinking of Lord Bitterne. I knew him so 
well at college and he was such a lovable chap. I 
would do anything to save him from the hell which 
he is creating for himself.” 

Margaret kept silent. She dared not tell John that 


SIN 


119 


Lord Bitteme had tried to force his attentions on her; 
of the many flowers and scores of invitations she had 
received from him, all of which she had thrown in the 
wastepaper basket. 

“Good night, dear Margaret,” said John, as they 
reached her apartment house, “rest well.” 

“Thank you, John dear. Good night.” 

After a last kiss, they parted. 

But John did not sleep until the sun had risen many 
hours. After parting from Margaret he had sought 
out Lord Bitteme. He found George at home, and he 
had listened to one of the most powerful sermons John 
had ever preached. 

“You are right, John old chap, and God help me. 
I try to ran straight, but my passion for women has 
me, and I am afraid that only death will end it.” 

“Perhaps, Bitteme, it may be something worse than 
death. Pull yourself together and be a man.” 

Lord Bitteme promised that he would try to play 
the game, and John, not knowing the state of de¬ 
generacy into which Lord Bitteme had fallen, believed 
him. 

Lord Bitteme then told John of his fruitless efforts 
to find any trace of his mother. 

“There is no doubt that she is dead, but I did so 
hope that I could have found her,” he said. 

“It seems so strange,” said John, “because all ac¬ 
counts of her Ladyship were too sweet to have —” and 
John stopped for he could not say the word. 

“Don’t mind me, John. I know what you were 
going to say; but after all it seems to be the only solu¬ 
tion. My mother must have thought the Thames far 
more merciful than my father,” said Lord Bitteme. 

John expressed a wish that all yet would come right. 

He left as the clock was striking six in the morning 
and returning to his rooms was soon soundly sleeping. 


XV 


Mrs. Cochrane stayed on a few days after Mrs. 
Lashwood had passed away. The unfortunate 
man who claimed Mrs. Lashwood for his wife 
was sent back to London where he speedily 
sought out his old haunts and forgot that such 
a thing as marriage existed. Mrs. Cochrane had 
asked him to let her help him on his way to 
America where work could be obtained, but the 
word “work” made him hastily refuse. 

Steven went down to Southend and spent the 
last few days with Mrs. Cochrane. 

“There’s going to be something doing when I 
meet Mrs. Stone. I can’t sleep at night for think¬ 
ing *of all this misery in a country which calls 
itself the most powerful in the world; they sure 
have got the most powerful poverty I ever saw. 
And this Mrs. Stone, Steve, owns those two filthy 
saloons in the alleys. You just wait, Steve, till 
I meet her.” 

Steven held his peace for he had known Mrs. 
Cochrane too long to attempt to stop her when 
once her mind was made up. 

On arriving in London, the first thing Mrs. 
Cochrane did was to ascertain whether Mrs. Stone 
was in town. 

“It appeared,” so said the butler who answered 
the ’phone, “that both Mr. and Mrs. Stone were 
dining out that evening at a Mrs. MacDougall’s,” 
and gave Mrs. Cochrane the address. 

“Here’s where I get busy, Steve; see that a 
120 


SIN 


121 


taxi is here for me in half an hour. I’ll just 
change my dress, and say, Steve, you’d better 
come along.” 

It was in vain that Steven pointed out that it 
would be a distinct breach of etiquette to call 
on people at that time of night. 

“Oh, shucks! Steve, we ain’t here to study eti¬ 
quette. Let’s go.” 

As before stated Steve had no option but to 
obey. 

Mrs. MacDougall prided herself on only receiv¬ 
ing the best people; that is, they who could boast 
of an income of not less than twenty-five thou¬ 
sand pounds a year. She was giving a little din¬ 
ner this evening in honor of a certain author who 
had suddenly leaped into fame. The dinner had 
gone off smoothly and the company were seated 
in the drawing-room listening to some music 
when the butler announced, “Mrs. Cochrane and 
Mr. Steven Hargraves.” Mrs. Stone audibly 
sniffed as they entered the room; poor woman, 
she would have sniffed herself out of London if 
she could only have known. 

Mrs. MacDougall received them graciously 
and expressed herself pleasantly surprised at their 
visit. 

“I am sure much obliged, ma’am, but I ain’t 
come here to see you, I want to talk to that 
ginger-headed woman over there,” indicating with 
her thumb Mrs. Robert Stone. Mrs. Stone gasped 
with anger and mortification. To be called “a 
ginger-headed woman” in public! 

Mrs. Stone rose to her feet, “do you mean to 
insinuate—” she began. 

“Yes, ma’am, I do. I don’t know what you are 


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trying to say, but if you mean telling the truth, 
without any trimming, I sure am that party. 
Now, ma’m, what do you mean by letting the 
poor people starve to death at the very door of 
your house?” 

Mrs. Stone replied that the poor were nothing 
to her. 

“Nothing to you, ma’am! Why. every penny 
they earn they put into your pocket by buying 
that filthy poison from your saloons. These dope 
houses of yours should be pulled down; and 
believe me, ma’am, if I had my way I would make 
you pull them down yourself. What do you 
mean by it,” said Mrs. Cochrane fiercely, “answer 
me that.” 

But Mrs. Stone had fainted. She was bowled 
completely out. 

“Well, if you can’t answer me now I suppose 
that I must call on you some other time. Come 
on, Steve, let’s be going. Goodbye, ma’am,” said 
Mrs. Cochrane, bowing to Mrs. MacDougall and 
the company present, “and next time I call on 
you don’t let that debased robber be anywhere 
handy, because her and me don’t hit it,” and 
Mrs. Cochrane sailed majestically from the room, 
leaving a silence that was worse than painful. It 
was broken at last by the hysterical voice of 
Mrs. Stone who had come to and inquired why 
Mrs. MacDougall had invited such a woman. 

“Invite her! Good heavens, I did not invite her; 
she just came.” And a Mrs. LeFay, a lady 
present, could heartily endorse this statement, 
for she had received a visit from Mrs. Cochrane 
only a few weeks ago when she wasn’t expecting 
the honor. 


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Mrs. LeFay had just finished drinking her 
morning cup of tea when the maid informed her 
that a Mrs. Cochrane had called. 

“Why in the world did you not say I was out? 
Tell her I am indisposed.” 

The maid gave Mrs. Cochrane the message, but 
Mrs. Cochrane had come there to see Mrs. LeFay 
and the word indisposed struck Mrs. Cochrane as 
being ridiculous. 

“I guess Fll just walk up to her room. She will 
be tickled to death to see me, I know.” 

In passing by a door leading into the breakfast 
room, Mrs. Cochrane heard someone sobbing 
and immediately tried to divine the cause. On 
entering the room she found a poor white-faced 
housemaid who was sitting on the floor sobbing 
as though her heart would break. Mrs. Cochrane 
just did what she always did, took the poor little 
girl in her arms and tried to comfort her. In a 
few minutes the maid had told Mrs. Cochrane 
quite sufficient. It was to the effect that she 
had been up until four that morning and then 
had to rise again at six; that she was weak and 
ill, and that Mrs. LeFay had threatened to dis¬ 
charge her without a character if she did not work 
harder, and— 

“Stop, child! Don’t tell me any more. Say, 
you do what I tell you now. Do you understand?” 

“Yes,” the poor girl sobbed. 

“Well, just you go and pack up your things 
and be ready to come away with me in a quarter 
of an hour.” 

The girl hesitated. “Go on, now, and get your 
things packed. You’ve got another job, my dear.” 
And the maid departed to fulfill her order, won- 


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dering if the end of the world had come, while 
Mrs. Cochrane marched into the bed chamber of 
Mrs. LeFay. 

Mrs. LeFay languidly extended her hand as 
she lay on her couch. Mrs. Cochrane did not 
take it, but instead gave her an epitome on her 
character that almost paralyzed her. The word 
lazy being repeated at several intervals and finally 
Mrs. Cochrane left the room, and the last thing 
Mrs. LeFay heard sounded like “You no-account 
heifer.” 

Mrs. Cochrane descended to the hall and waited 
for her protege to come down. The little girl 
came down at last and on Mrs. Cochrane’s inquir¬ 
ing as to the whereabouts of her belongings, the 
maid said that her box was too heavy to carry 
down herself. 

“Don’t you worry about that, my dear. Now, 
then, you poor boob,” said Mrs. Cochrane, ad¬ 
dressing the portly butler, “hop upstairs and bring 
this girl’s box down.” The amazed butler did 
her bidding and actually carried the box out to 
the taxi. Mrs. Cochrane took a final shot at the 
butler before they drove away, “Say, how would 
you like to try working for a living? Ain’t you 
ashamed of yourself, walking about all dolled up 
like a Dutch hash slinger?” And as the taxi took 
its departure the horrified butler slowly sank 
to the pavement. 

Mrs. Cochrane took the poor little maid in her 
arms and kissed her saying, “You just stay right 
on with me, my dear; I am going home very 
shortly and you come too. We know how to 
treat our hired girls out there.” 

Mrs. Stone left as soon as she thought it safe, 


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and cn arriving home took to her bed, xlr'lp poor 
Robert received enough abuse from his faithful 
spouse to last him far the renamier cf bis life, 
for Mrs. Stone fare i her bus banc far rat for¬ 
cibly removing Mrs. Cochrane from ber presence. 

Poor Steven. be feb very much embarrassed 
daring the lecture aimiuistered to Mrs Sttne by 
Mrs. Cochrane. but at tbe same time be loved 
Mrs Cochrane all the mare for ber vonderfuL 
generous nature 

“I dont know, Steve, what to make of tb s 
country I never saw sa many aocr people in my 
life. Same of these rith guys here seems as 
proud as a arize bull all dolled up ready far tbe 
fair, ana Steve. Sod knows what they have to be 
arena of. Z feel h ernes ick. Steve, let s go time. 

Steven baa been lonely himself and agree! taut 
there was no place I ke borne after all It was 
the ml a ale of September so they male up their 
minis to return to America as so:n as tbe month 
was out. 

".Vhat d j you intend icing with tbe little girl 
yon brought here! said Steven 

I 11 take her across with me. Steve. She 
seems very foul of me. My lan 1 sakes. that 
woman would have kike 1 her if I hadn’t taken 
ber away. She sure has filled out some since 
she s been living here Have you notice! it. 
Steve r 

“She is certainly improve! in looks: but hasn’t 
she any frier.is or relatives in this country who 
should be consume! as to ber future'* 

‘Mary a one. Steve. This kttle girl is what 
they call a love chili: you know Steve I can’t 
explain.*’ 



126 


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“I know, Mrs. Cochrane,” said Steve, “and I 
am glad that she is now a ward of the dearest 
woman in the world.” 

“Cut it out, Steve,” said Mrs. Cochrane smiling. 
“Why, boy, there are heaps of little girlies who 
would be tickled to death to hear you peddle the 
blarney stuff like that. I suppose, Steve, you’ll 
marry again some day.” 

“I suppose so,” said Steven listlessly; but never¬ 
theless he knew that some day a little girl hav¬ 
ing his dear wife’s pretty ways and unselfish, 
loving nature would creep into his heart and 
that he must sooner or later provide a mother for 
his little children. 


XVI 


There were only a few people left in the club 
card-room; for the early hours of morning find 
many empty pockets and dissatisfied minds, and 
generally after midnight the exodus is noticeable. 

At one table sat Lord Bitterne, his shirt front 
stained with wine, and his appearance in general 
speaking very strongly of his having spent a giddy 
evening. His face was flushed and he appeared 
excited. Opposite him sat Mr. Molstein. Lord 
Bitterne had reached that stage when he was 
heartily sick of the life he was leading, and 
Molstein divining this smiled as he thought of 
how soon this man would be seeking a fresh 
face. 

“Well, well, my Lord, I am sorry that you are 
bored with this existence of ours. What your 
Lordship needs is a little excitement.” 

“Excitement be damned,” replied Lord George, 
“what I need is a good pure woman to share my 
life. I tell you candidly, Molstein, I feel just now 
like taking a dose of poison or putting a bullet 
through my brain. I would give my soul to meet 
some woman who could fill that lonely void.” 

“But, my Lord,” said Molstein in his soft, oily 
voice, “you surely should have no difficulty in 
finding a wife. Why, there are hundreds who 
would be only too glad to accept your Lordship 
for a husband.” 

“Rot, Molstein, talk sense. I am not in the 
humor for rot. When I said a woman, I meant 
127 


128 


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some decent girl. Damn you, Molstein, you 
know very well that the class of women that 
you are referring to are past mistresses in the 
art of sensuality.” 

“No, no, my Lord, you wrong me. I was 
thinking of women such as that charming singer, 
Miss Hinton.” 

“That’s all very well, Molstein, but you know 
I am too rotten for a girl like Miss Hinton to 
give a second thought to; although I have tried 
hard enough to get on a friendly footing with 
her, and after all what right have I to dare 
associate my thoughts with Miss Hinton, miser¬ 
able soul-stained wretch that I am.” 

“Now, my Lord, you must not condemn your¬ 
self in that way, but I am glad to know that you 
still have hopes of handing your name down to 
posterity.” 

“What the devil do you mean, Molstein? Here, 
shut up! Let’s go on with the game. Order 
something to drink, I am parched.” 

Molstein inwardly chuckled, for his fish had 
already nibbled and he hoped before dawn to 
land him. They played steadily for nearly two 
hours without either winning or losing anything 
to speak of, but during these two hours Molstein 
had seen to it that his Lordship drank deep and 
plentifully. The wine was now beginning to tell, 
for Lord Bitterne’s laugh rang out very often 
as he lost or won. 

Molstein did not care a hang about the game 
they were playing. What he needed was some¬ 
thing more substantial than a few paltry pounds. 
He had waited for the opportunity to be alone 
with Lord Bitterne. He had picked him up in 


SIN 


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the evening at a cafe in Leicester Square. Lord 
Bitterne had just been played by two charming 
damsels who, after relieving him of sufficient cash 
to keep them both in comfort for the remainder 
of the week, had quietly slipped away without 
fulfilling their promises, and his Lordship was 
peeved at such conduct. Molstein had found him 
in this particular mood, and knowing Lord 
Bitterne, opportunity did not look better; so he 
had persuaded Lord George to come around to 
Sherman’s Night Club and play a hand of picquet. 

Lord Bitterne leaned back in his chair and de¬ 
clined to play any more. “I am sick of cards and 
women.” 

“But not all women,” insinuated Molstein. 

“No, not all women, Molstein. Now, for in¬ 
stance, if I thought that there was any possible 
chance to get friendly with Margaret Hinton—” 

Molstein smiled. 

“Yes,” went on Lord Bitterne, “I would give 
anything to have that little darling in my arms 
and kiss those red lips. Anything, do you hear 
me, Molstein, anything.” 

Lord Bitterne had lost his spirit of remorse. 
His brain was aflame with wine and passion. 

“Well, my Lord, why don’t you take her in 
your arms and kiss her if you want to? These 
women pretend to be prudes so as to make them¬ 
selves more desirable.” 

“I believe you are right, Molstein. What right 
has this girl, a public singer, to slight me? Peer 
of the realm, mind you.” 

“Well, well, my Lord, I imagine she will come 
your way some day.” 

“That is all very well, you telling me some 


130 


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day, but I can’t wait; I want her now, and I 
want her badly,” said George. 

“I dare say I could arrange that you meet her 
—shortly,” said Molstein slowly. 

“Give me your hand, Molstein, I can see hope 
in your words. Now tell me. Meet her when, 
and where?” 

“In answer to that, my Lord, I would leave the 
time to you, except that I would suggest at night, 
and the place—well, suppose we say her bed¬ 
room.” 

Lord Bitterne rose unsteadily to his feet. “My 
God! Molstein, if you could manage that I would 
give you anything that you asked.” 

“Well, you know it would not be easy, but I 
dare say that I could arrange for a meeting such 
as I have suggested for—shall we say five thou¬ 
sand pounds-?” 

“Molstein, I never desired a girl so much in my 
life as I desire this Margaret Hinton. If you can 
pull this thing off, I will give you a check for that 
amount with pleasure.” 

“Then shake hands, my Lord, for I am going to 
relieve you of that particular sum at a very early 
date. Let me see, today is Wednesday; I think 
that next Sunday night will find Margaret Hinton 
in your arms.” 

Lord Bitterne walked to the window and open¬ 
ing the curtains looked out over the river. The 
dawn had already cast her pale light over the 
city and the rumble of a few early carts was heard 
as they made for the markets. His soul was 
aflame with desire. There was a singing in his 
brain. It was, “She’s yours, at last.” 

Molstein, devil, fiend incarnate, watched him 


SIN 


131 


with a smile on his face. How easy it had been. 
Why, after that outburst when the fiery American 
had been present he had wondered if it would 
ever be possible. 

Money came first to Molstein, then women. 
He had ruined more women than he could re¬ 
member. It gave him perfect satisfaction to 
seduce a young girl and then cast her aside; yet 
Molstein himself was a married man with grow¬ 
ing daughters. 

Lord George staggered home mad with lust 
and passion. He tossed feverishly on his bed 
until sleep overcame him. Molstein took his 
departure from the club in a jocular frame of 
mind. And why shouldn’t he? He had just 
made five thousand pounds. True it was to 
encompass the ruin of a young innocent girl, 
but what was that to him? He had some business 
to attend to before he could go home and greet 
his loving wife. He had to walk a short distance 
in the direction of Charing Cross. He soon 
reached his destination, which was a house that 
once might have been the residence of some 
prosperous tradesman. Times had changed, how¬ 
ever, and it was now a third rate apartment 
dwelling. It was kept by a lady named Schmidt, 
and Molstein after ringing the bell contentedly 
waited for her appearance. A few minutes passed 
and he was admitted. 

“My gracious, Mr. Molstein, what brings you 
here at this early hour of the morning?” said 
the mistress of the house, a fat woman almost 
as evil as Molstein himself. 

“Business, my dear lady, business. I have a 
little job I want done—” 


132 


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“Not so loud, young Carstains is here.” 

“He is, eh,” said Molstein, “who’s the lady?” 

“The usual thing,” replied Mrs. Schmidt, “there 
was a pretty little woman who got into debt and 
was afraid to tell her husband. I found out 
through Lily Mears, so I set Lily at work and 
she soon showed her how to clear herself of 
debt without anybody being the wiser. Although 
it was very difficult I can assure you, for the 
lady backed out at the last minute and we had to 
use—” 

“Just so,” said Molstein, “a little chloroform, 
eh? Very useful thing, Mrs. Schmidt; but that 
was sometime ago. What did the lady say when 
she came round?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Mrs. Schmidt 
smiling, “the deed was done then, you know, so 
I suppose she is now asleep in the arms of young 
Carstains.” 

“Very interesting story, Mrs. Schmidt. But 
now to business. This Lily Mears you speak of, 
is she to be trusted?” 

“Absolutely,” replied Mrs. Schmidt. 

“Well then just pay attention. If you can do 
what I am going to ask you it will mean fifty 
pounds for you. Now listen, there is a certain 
girl living here in London whom a young friend 
of mine has taken a fancy to, and for some out¬ 
landish reason she refuses to have anything to 
do with him. She lives in a suite of apartments 
with an elderly lady, no servants kept. Next 
Sunday evening I shall arrange that the elderly 
person is called away by telegram. Lily Mears 
must call on the girl and tell her some story 
of poverty, for this particular girl I am speaking 


SIN 


133 


of is very soft hearted, and Lily must use either 
a little laudanum, which would be best, or failing 
that, repeat your practice of tonight. When the 
fair lady is asleep Lily must pull up the blind in 
the front room for a moment and then wait for 
my friend. She can then return to her home.” 

‘‘But, Mr. Molstein, it is a very risky thing. I 
don’t like it a bit.” 

‘‘Then let me tell you, Mrs. Schmidt, you have 
got to like it,” said Molstein. 

“Well, I will manage it somehow. I suppose 
that you will see me again before Sunday and 
give me the address.” 

“Certainly, Mrs. Schmidt, expect me Saturday 
evening about nine,” and bidding Mrs. Schmidt 
a cordial good morning, Mr. Molstein went home 
to sleep the sleep of the just. 

When Mr. Molstein had left the house, Mrs. 
Schmidt fell to musing. “The greedy old beast, 
I wonder how much he is getting out of this. 
I never saw such a man as him in all my life. 
He always manages to get the cream of the 
trade,” which remark seemed to savor of a cer¬ 
tain profession, little known to the great mass of 
humanity who day after day pride themselves 
on living in a country where decency is the rule. 

Mrs. Schmidt was disturbed in her musings 
by a step on the stair and throwing open the 
door, she espied a girl slowly creeping towards 
the front door and she smiled as she recognized 
the victim of the previous evening. The poor 
unfortunate looked piteously towards Mrs. 
Schmidt, but seeing no pity in her face she 
turned away and opening the front door went out 
into the street. 


134 


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She walked towards the embankment and stood 
for a moment watching the swift running water. 
God knows what she thought. A few minutes 
afterwards there was a splash, a few struggles, 
and the poor little girl that a few weeks ago had 
been a happy and contented wife, had found 
peace. 


XVII 


The third Monday in September was generally se¬ 
lected by the Reverend Mr. Stone for a garden party. 
That is to say, on this particular date the Christian 
people who regularly attended St. Martha's would 
meet and drink tea, talk the usual scandal and thank 
God for the Church. Not that they cared whether 
the Church was good or bad, but this garden party 
had of recent years come into being and so they were 
bound by social laws as immutable as those of the 
Medes of Persians to obey that Autocrat, Dame 
Fashion. This year the gathering was held at the 
residence of a Mr. and Mrs. Markham, who although 
not exactly rich, at least managed to go along very 
nicely on the reputation of Mr. Markham who was an 
artist of some repute. 

The Vicar, of course, was bound to be present, and 
indeed he took good care that on all or any occasion 
where good food was plentiful to go early and leave 
late. Mrs. Stone was not going as she had an unpleas¬ 
ant thought in her mind that in all probability Mrs. 
Cochrane would be present. 

Mrs. Cochrane was going for exactly the opposite 
reason for she had not yet finished her interrupted 
conversation with Mrs. Stone. So with Steven as 
escort she set out for the house of Mrs. Markham. 

“I do hope, Steve, that we shall see that ginger¬ 
headed woman again. I sure shall say a mouthful if 
we do meet her. I wonder why Congress don't order 
those saloons pulled down." 

Mrs. Cochrane had not yet adapted herself to the 
135 


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way of London. She could not understand why such 
dire necessity existed, for she had been born and raised 
on a ranch where everybody worked, ate, slept, and 
arose at cockcrow; where everybody was happy and 
contented; and where sin, as Mrs. Cochrane had seen 
it during her residence in London, was conspicuous 
by its absence. 

It must be understood that Mrs. Cochrane had come 
practically direct from her little home town to London. 
If by chance she had gone to Chicago, New York 
or Seattle, for instance, she no doubt would have been 
just as horrified at the immorality and selfishness that 
is so apparent in these big cities. But fate had or¬ 
dained that London was to be the city in which the 
good lady could show her ability as a second Carrie 
Nation. To Mrs. Cochrane, England and America 
were synonymous. She alluded to a member of parlia¬ 
ment as a congressman, and King George as the Presi¬ 
dent King; hence her remark to Steven, “Why don’t 
Congress act.” 

Mrs. Cochrane, like millions of others, had a lot to 
learn. For instance the old truism, “fool the people 
and they will love you,” is universal. In England a 
member of Parliament is one who has convinced his 
constituents that he is an honest man with only one 
object in life—to work for their interest. 

In America, a Congressman is one who not only per¬ 
suades the people that he is honest but actually be¬ 
lieves himself that crookedness is abominable, but 
finds out after he is elected that he did not know his 
own virtues. 

On this beautiful September afternoon quite a 
large crowd was gathered at Mrs. Markham’s home. 
It was just an everyday garden party, scandal being 
the dominant topic. Booths had been erected on the 


SIN 


137 


lawns and an outrageous band with a foreign name 
played various selections. Tennis, croquet, and flirting 
were the usual pastimes. In the dining-room such re¬ 
freshments as were needed could be found; so after 
paying his respects to his sainted congregation, the 
Vicar made way to this storage to sample whatsoever 
appealed to his palate. 

Mrs. Cochrane was very heartily wrelcomed by the 
majority. Not on account of her social position, but 
because she was wealthy, and for the amusement that 
she generally caused by her direct attack on all w T ho 
crossed her path. 

After having been received by their host and hostess, 
Mrs. Cochrane was introduced to the guests whom 
she had not met before. Steven made his way over to 
Lord Bitterne who had beckoned to him. 

“Awfully glad to see you, Steven, but I do wish 
that you would call around a little more.” 

“My dear George, do you know that I have called 
three times at your house and five times at your club 
and drew a blank each time?” 

“So sorry, Steven, but if you ring me up any morn¬ 
ing before eleven I can always arrange for a meeting. 
By the way, is it true that you are returning to 
America in a few days ?” 

“Yes,” replied Steven, “Mrs. Cochrane and I have 
decided to cross the Atlantic at the end of this month.” 

“I am sorry that you are going back so soon, Steven, 
I fed rather mean myself at not having had more of 
your company. I know that I have neglected you 
shamefully, but you will forgive me, old boy, I know.” 

“Certainly,” said Steven, “I will forgive you for the 
simple reason that there is nothing to forgive.” 

“Now look here, Steven, I want Mrs. Cochrane and 



138 


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you to come down to my place in Surrey, can you 
spend a week ?” 

"I shall be delighted and I can assure you, George, 
that Mrs. Cochrane will feel the same as I do. ,, 

“Good, we shall be together all the time. I sup¬ 
pose that you do not mind trotting ’round after the 
birds.” 

“Not at all,” said Steven, “for although my shooting 
days are practically over—” looking ruefully down at 
his empty sleeve—“I still have enough sportman’s 
blood left to enjoy watching a good gunman.” 

“Thanks, Steve, then it is all settled. I shall expect 
you down next Monday.” 

While Lord George and his friend were chatting, 
Mrs. Cochrane had made another hit. Among the 
people who had been introduced to Mrs. Cochrane was 
a young man by the name of Briggs, who had earned a 
reputation as a wit. This poor boy, not knowing, 
thought Mrs. Cochrane an excellent subject on which 
to show his skill. With a knowing wink to a few of 
his friends he commenced: 

“Please tell me, Mrs. Cochrane. How do you feel 
in America since you won the war?” 

Mrs. Cochrane looked him steadily in the face, 
“Say, young man, may I ask what you did in the war?” 

“Well, you see, er—” 

“Sure I can see, I expect that while your country¬ 
men were being cut up over there you held down some 
government job. Ain’t that so?” 

Poor Briggs was not enjoying himself. “Well, I 
did my bit, don’t you know. I was superintendent of a 
large farm.” 

“My, you don’t say so. Wasn’t you scared of the 
cows when you had to milk them?” 


SIN 


139 


The amused listeners waited for his answer, but 
Briggs had already departed. 

The Reverend Mr. Stone finding the food supply 
rather meagre decided to come out on the lawn and 
see if it was not possible to find some occasion in which 
to show his oratorical powers. 

He found it, for Mrs. Cochrane no sooner beheld him 
than she went up to where he stood talking to Lord 
Bitterne. Lord Bitterne gave Mrs. Cochrane a smile 
for he anticipated something of what was coming 
and in a quiet manner the other guests drew near. 

‘‘Well, Parson,” said Mrs. Cochrane, “where is 
that woman of yours ?” 

“My dear lady,” replied the Vicar, “you really must 
not speak of my wife in that way.” 

“You said it, Parson, that’s too good to speak of a 
woman who robs the little children of their bread. 
Now tell me Parson how is it that you call yourself a 
man of God ? Why, if I was God, I would put you to 
cleaning out pig pens. No, I wouldn’t, that would be 
too good for you, I would make you a bartender 
in one of those dirty shacks your wife owns in the 
back alleys. You tell that wife of yours from me, 
that I ain’t finished with her yet. She will hear from 
me again, but I have something to say to you. 

“Last Sunday you preached (God forgive you) 
about children having no father, and called them chil¬ 
dren of shame. What for? Ain’t you a child of 
shame yourself, besides you can’t prove to me or any 
one else here,” and Mrs. Cochrane eyed her audience, 
“that your father was your father. I loved my 
mother better than anyone else in the world and I 
know that she was an angel, but what I want to say is, 
nobody can prove that they are not children of shame, 


140 


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as you called those poor little children; and what’s 
more, wasn’t our Saviour illegitimate?” 

The Vicar had long given up the fight. All he 
wanted to do was to get away as quickly as possible. 
He felt that words, even if he had the power to utter 
them, would be useless. 

“Don’t you let me hear you talk any more slush in 
church or there will be something doing. Why, Mutt 
and Jeff could talk better than you do. Now you 
beat it, go home and tell your woman what I say.” 

Have you ever seen a dog slink away when it 
has been scolded? Well, picture a fat dog, a very fat 
dog slinking, and you will get some idea of how the 
Vicar appeared as he went. He did not even stop to 
bid farewell, but just went. 

“I guess he knows all there is to know now,” said 
Mrs. Cochrane beaming on the crowd that surrounded 
her, and the crowd that so far had been dumb, burst 
into a roar of laughter; and many loved Mrs. Cochrane 
for her crude but honest truths. 

Among those present was one who was too as¬ 
tounded even to laugh. Poor little Dick Morse had 
listened to Mrs. Cochrane with his heart in his 
mouth; for to him one who could down the Reverend 
Robert Stone was to be feared; consequently he kept 
well in the background, anxiously awaiting for a 
favorable opportunity to leave the party. 

Steven Hargraves had a warm regard for little 
Dicky and while Mrs. Cochrane, who had leaped into 
fame by her slaying of the Philistine, was surrounded 
by the amused guests, he accosted Dicky, inquired 
after his health and taking him by the arm led him up 
to Mrs. Cochrane and gave the necessary introduc¬ 
tion. 

“Glad to meet you,” said Mrs. Cochrane. “You 


SIN 


141 


ain’t much to look at but they tell me you are some 
preacher. I guess I shall hear you preach next Sunday 
morning.” 

Mrs. Cochrane had noticed the evident embarrass¬ 
ment of the little man. He looked comical peering 
through his glasses at her. Mrs. Cochrane had great 
difficulty in restraining herself from laughing. She 
made Dicky sit down by her side and commenced ask¬ 
ing questions that horrified him. 

“Say, Mr. Morse, how is it that some of the women 
folk I meet at dinner wear dresses that show so much 
of their bodies?” 

Dicky stammered that it was possible to show their 
charms. 

“You show me,” said Mrs. Cochrane, “how a 
woman is going to make herself charming by putting 
all her goods in the store window at once.” 

The simile was lost on Dicky who was too 
amazed to answer. 

“What I mean to say,” went on Mrs. Cochrane, 
musingly, “is that a girl who has all her goods on 
view at once ain’t likely to get a husband nearly as 
quick as the girl who is modest. If I was a man I 
wouldn’t want to marry a girl who was not particular 
what other men saw. Why, it’s indecent.” 

Needless to say when Mrs. Cochrane returned to 
America and visited some of her own big cities she 
realized—sadly against her will—that fashion does 
sometimes change. 

Dicky was glad to get away from her, for he had an 
unpleasant idea in his head that she was quite capable 
of attacking him with her umbrella at the slightest 
provocation. 

The afternoon was almost gone and the party gradu¬ 
ally broke up. Lord Bitterne came up to Mrs. Coch- 


142 


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rane just before she departed and told her that Steven 
had accepted an invitation on her behalf. “Very kind 
of you, lord, and I will be pleased to come down; but 
say when are you going to settle down? Why can’t 
you find some little girl and make her your wife?” 
Lord Bitterne replied that he would be only too glad 
to get married but no one seemed to want him, so he 
supposed that he should have to cross over to America 
again after all. 

“Don’t worry about that, Lord. Believe me Ameri¬ 
can girls don’t want a man like you fooling after them. 
What they need is a man who can be satisfied with 
one little girlie and not waste his time running after 
every pretty face he sees.” 

Lord Bitterne was highly amused at Mrs. Coch¬ 
rane’s description of his gaiety and laughingly replied 
that every man had to sow his wild oats. 

“Say, Lord, tell me what ground have you got left 
to sow your good oats in; for believe me you have 
sown enough wild oats to feed all the cattle in America 
for the next twenty years. But I’ll talk to you when 
I come down to your place. Goodbye, Lordship, now 
watch your step, my lad,” and Mrs. Cochrane taking 
Steven by the arm departed, leaving Lord George with 
a grin of amusement on his face which after a time 
faded as he thought that after all Mrs. Cochrane was 
right and that his past life was indeed pretty well 
choked with weeds. 


XVIII 


John Keen had become almost as well known to the 
inhabitants of Cross Keys Passages as the constable 
who was stationed on Cross Keys beat, with a differ¬ 
ence of course, for while the constable was hated 
with that fervent hatred born of crime, John was ad¬ 
mired and respected. He had made a number of firm 
friends and did what he could to alleviate the rotten 
conditions that constantly prevailed in that degraded 
quarter. 

One couple by the name of Grey had been the 
especial care of John. The husband was an old ser¬ 
geant who had served in France and previous to his 
enlistment had been a shoemaker. On returning from 
the war he found that the demand for shoes had be¬ 
come so limited on account of the high prices that he 
was obliged to seek occupation elsewhere. Eventu¬ 
ally he opened a small green grocer’s store at the 
corner of a street running parallel with the Passages, 
and managed to eke out a doubtful existence. His 
abode, however, was in Cross Keys. His wife was a 
frail little woman who worked early and late helping 
her husband who had soon become disgusted with the 
conditions that existed in that particular quarter of 
London and sought solace in drink. 

John had several talks with Grey and had persuaded 
him to sign the pledge. Sergeant Grey soon found 
that by leaving drink severely alone and attending to 
his store things were not so bad after all. Mrs. Grey 
loved John for his kindly influence, for she was de¬ 
voted to her husband and the strain of having to run a 
143 


144 


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business and look after a drunken husband, had not 
tended to improve her health. Both Mr. and Mrs. 
Grey promised John that they would attend his church, 
and the previous Sunday John had looked in vain for 
them. 

It was the following Saturday morning and John 
was just about to start for a visit to Cross Keys, as 
he had not been able to go during the week, when the 
landlady announced a visitor. To John’s surprise no 
less a person than William Smith was shown into the 
room. 

“Good morning, Captain, I ’opes you’ll excuse me 
but I ’ave come on partickler business,” said William. 

“I am always glad to see you, William, come as 
often as you wish,” replied John shaking him by the 
hand. “Now sit down and let me hear your news.” 

“Well, Governor, it’s like this ’ere. That bloke who 
you knows of, he kicked his missus so damned ’ard that 
she’s going to croak.” 

John was by this time familiar with the language 
of Cross Keys and thoroughly understood what 
William was saying. 

“Am I to understand that one of you has kicked 
his wife so badly that she may die?” 

“Yes, Cap, but it ain’t me. I ain’t got no missus, 
thank Gawd, and I wouldn’t know what to do wif one 
if I did. You take my tip, Captain, and don’t get 
tied up. Women’s all right when they ain’t yourn, 
but Gawd ’elp yer if yer as ’em tied rahnd yer neck. 
W’y, who’d ’a thought that Bob Grey would boot his 
missus—” 

But John was on his feet with a look of horror on 
his face that made Bill feel awed. John took up his 
hat and silently beckoning to William they left the 
house. Not a word was spoken during their walk to 


SIN 


145 


Cross Keys. John strode along, his face set in pain, 
while Bill followed in the rear. 

On arriving at the home of Mrs. Grey, John met the 
doctor just leaving. 

“Just in time, Mr. Keen,” said the doctor in a mat¬ 
ter-of-fact voice. 

“Is there no hope for her?” John asked. 

“Not the slightest,” replied the doctor. “She has 
received a heavy blow in the side which has fractured 
her ribs and they have penetrated her lung. She is 
too ill to move; but in any case it would make no 
difference for nothing could save her. It is only a 
question of a few hours at the most.” 

John left the doctor still speaking and quietly 
entered the house. 

Poor Mrs. Grey was lying on her bed with such a 
look of agony on her face that John was fain to turn 
away his eyes for a minute or two. 

“Oh, sir,” gasped Mrs. Grey, “I am glad you have 
come. Will you pray for me ?” 

John knelt down by her side and prayed in a simple 
way that God would lead his sister into the valley of 
peace. He rose to his feet at the conclusion of his 
prayer and taking a chair, sat down by her side and 
tried to comfort this poor dying woman. 

The other person in the room was an elderly female, 
a drink-sodden wretch, who had spent the night with 
Mrs. Grey; for in the heart of woman is something 
that cannot be defined and the nearest we can get to 
that something is God. 

John asked for Mr. Grey, but a warning look from 
the old woman made him silent. Just then two men 
came into the room and John immediately recognized 
police officers. Kindly men in their way, for they 
made as little noise as possible, and the elder of the two 


146 


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spoke in a quiet voice to Mrs. Grey and asked her how 
the accident happened. 

“I fell downstairs,” said Mrs. Grey. 

“Well, in that case I suppose that it was just an 
ordinary accident after all; but we heard, you know, 
that some man had kicked you.” 

“It’s a lie, it’s a lie,” moaned the poor woman, “I 
fell down I tell you, please sir, I fell down.” 

John clasped her by the hand for he knew now that 
her husband was responsible for her accident. 

The officers rose to depart and the inspector patted 
her gently on the hand, “Cheer up, Mrs. Grey, you will 
soon get well again.” 

“But I fell down, I tell you.” 

“That’s all right, Mrs. Grey, your word is ac¬ 
cepted,” said the inspector, “so we shall not be down 
here again.” 

A look of relief came over her face when she 
understood that it was accepted by the police that it 
was an accident. 

John gently spoke of God’s love to the poor dying 
woman. 

“My Bob wouldn’t hurt me, sir, would you Bob? 
Oh my God, stop this pain, it’s killing me. All right 
Bob dear, we will go to church. Don’t hit me, Bob. 
Oh, the pain.” Then opening her eyes she looked at 
John and smiled—and smiling she passed away. 

John could not believe at first that this little woman 
who a few days ago was so grateful to him, was now 
no more. Then he thought of her beloved lies. Beau¬ 
tiful jewels of heaven, John thought them. 

“Oh, God, teach men to reverence women; for Thy 
greatest handiwork was the creation of a helpmate 
for man.” 

John’s heart was heavy with sorrow for he could not 


SIN 


147 


understand how it could be possible for this man Grey 
to commit such a dastardly act. A step sounded on 
the stairs and Bob Grey slunk into the room, but such 
a Bob Grey. His eyes were bloodshot, his face in¬ 
flamed with drink. 

“Come on, get up, you’re shamming. Come on 
Lizzie,” he pleaded. “God’s truth I wouldn’t hurt 
you.” Then he noticed John. 

“You bloody hypocrite, you blasted—” 

“Hush,” said John, “your poor wife is dead.” 

“Dead!” echoed Bob. “My God, Lizzie, come back, 
old pal,” and sobbing as though his heart would break 
he flung himself down beside the wife he had mur¬ 
dered. John Keen could not speak. From his very 
heart he was praying for this man. The man’s sobs 
quieted after awhile and he rose to his feet. 

“You,” said he looking at John, “you and your 
bloody church made me do this. Listen, last Sunday 
morning me and my Liz came to your church and we 
was told that people like us wasn’t wanted. Yes, the 
bloke there turned us away. I went straight into the 
nearest pub and stayed there till I was too drunk to 
remember that I ain’t wanted in church and then I 
must have come home and kicked my Liz,” and he 
dropped to his knees by her side and kissed her face 
while his great form shook with passionate utter¬ 
ances. 

John rose to his feet and staggered out into the 
Passages like a drunken man. His face was white 
and set. He made his way to St. Martha’s and ac¬ 
costed the verger. 

“Did you refuse admittance to this church last 
Sunday morning to a man and his wife?” 

“Yes, sir,” replied the verger and John raised his 
hand to strike him to the earth when the verger went 


148 


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on: “You see sir, the Vicar gave me strict orders 
that I was not to admit any poor people into the church. 
He said if I did he would discharge me, and—” But 
he was talking to the empty air for John had already 
departed. 

He went directly to Regents Park and asked to see 
the Vicar. 

“The Vicar is away, sir, but there is a letter here 
which was to be delivered to you so if you wish, sir, 
I will give it to you,” said the butler. 

John took it like a man in a dream and slowly 
wended his way homeward. It was some weeks after¬ 
wards before John realized that had the Vicar been 
at home, he would have killed him. 

When John reached home he opened the letter and 
read: 

“My dear Brother: 

I am called away to my place in Hampshire and 
cannot get back before noon tomorrow. Will you 
arrange for Morse to take the morning service? And 
I should like you to officiate at Evensong; for my 
dear boy, I really shall not have time to look up a 
sermon but I shall be able to read the lessons for you 
Sunday evening.” 

Would he preach in the evening? Yes he would, 
but it would be his last sermon. From now on the 
Church and he were forever separated by that deep 
gulf, hypocrisy. 

He would go out to Frank Greymarsh. Perhaps 
there he would be able to make a living. But what of 
Margaret? How could he leave her? And sinking 
on his knees John bowed his head in prayer and 
besought God to guide him. 


SIN 


149 


He was disturbed by someone knocking on the 
door. 

‘‘Come in,” said John, and in walked Mrs. Coch¬ 
rane and Margaret. Both immediately became aware 
that something was wrong for John certainly looked 
ill. 

“Land sakes, boy, you ought to be in bed,” said Mrs. 
Cochrane. 

Margaret crossed swiftly to his side and kissed him, 
hugging him fondly and soothing him. 

“Oh, boy!” said Mrs. Cochrane. “I am tickled to 
death. If I had to choose a husband for my Margaret, 
you sure are that lad. Now if you take my advice 
you’ll just marry this sweet girl before somebody else 
beats you to it.” 

“Dear Mrs. Cochrane,” said Margaret, “John is 
the only man in the world for me, but he is so proud 
that he will not ask me to share his life because he is 
poor. Why, I would glory in sharing your poverty, 
John. But I am forgetting. What is the matter, 
dearest, you do not look well?” 

John then told them what had happened that day, 
and his visitors were horrified at his story; and when 
John described how these two poor people had come 
to church happy and contented that they were doing 
something that was right, and how they had been 
turned away from the house of God, Mrs. Cochrane 
could contain herself no longer. 

“God help this parson when I see him,” said Mrs. 
Cochrane, “for I will surely smash my umbrella over 
his head.” 

“Dear, dear John, I know how you feel; but dear, I 
would not worry too much for God will surely punish 
this man Stone for his sins.” 


150 


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'‘True, Margaret dear, but the pain hurts just the 
same.” 

“Now I want you, Mrs. Cochrane, to keep calm, 
please do not attempt anything rash. On Sunday 
evening I am preaching at St. Martha’s. It will be my 
last sermon in this so-called House of God and I am 
going to tell the truth. God help me, and may our 
Father grant that what I shall say may be the means 
of helping in a small way to purify and cleanse His 
Holy Temple; for like our Lord and Master, I shall 
use a whip and overthrow the heathen.” 


XIX 


The attendance at St. Martha’s on a Sunday 
morning was generally limited. Eleven was by 
far too early for the majority of society butter¬ 
flies ; they much preferred to be taking their 
morning cup of tea lying back among the pil¬ 
lows than bowing their heads in worship. In 
the evening they did not mind spending the usual 
hour worshipping God; after all, you know, it 
was only in form to attend church once a week. 
Consequently little Dicky Morse preached to more 
empty pews than persons. 

No little excitement and expectation was 
caused when John Keen, after giving out the 
notices said, “I wish to inform this congregation 
that I shall preach my farewell sermon this 
evening, as I am leaving St. Martha’s; and I hope 
that as many of you as possible will endeavor to 
be present. I have something to say that con¬ 
cerns the welfare of this church.” 

The announcement that John Keen was leav¬ 
ing St. Martha’s came as a bombshell to its ad¬ 
herents and speculation was rife as to why and 
wherefore. The meagre attendance carried the 
news to other houses and in consequence there 
threatened to be a record gathering that evening. 

Steven Hargraves, who had spoken to John the 
previous evening, knew very well that the sermon 
which he intended preaching would astonish, not 
only the saintly members who were bound to 
be present, but the whole of London. 

151 


152 


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Steven had become acquainted with a Mr. 
McClumpha, editor of the Morning News, who 
after receiving a hint from Steven as to what 
would probably take place, made up his mind that 
he would be present. 

The editor of the Morning News was more 
feared by both politicians and society in general 
than any other man in town. He had come to 
London forty years ago; a poor, starving Scotch 
boy and he never forgot his early struggles for 
a livelihood or the bitter contempt he had re¬ 
ceived from those who considered that the poor 
were a necessary evil. Mr. McClumpha never lost 
an opportunity of attacking the useless fraternity 
who styled themselves “Society.” 

The church was crowded. Pews that had long 
since been neglected were comfortably well filled. 
There was not an empty seat. Margaret Hinton 
and Mrs. Cochrane sat together while Steven and 
Mr. McClumpha sat more forward so as not to 
lose any word of John’s sermon. 

The Vicar and his beloved wife entered the 
church just as the service was about to com¬ 
mence. They had been delayed somewhat by a 
blow-out on the road and only reached London 
in time for a hurried meal and then went straight 
to St. Martha’s. It is highly probable that they 
would not have gone to church had they not re¬ 
ceived the news on their arrival that John Keen 
had made his startling announcement at the 
morning service. 

“Dear me,” said the Vicar, “I do hope that he 
is not going to say anything unpleasant. Do 
you know, my dear, that I shall not be sorry when 


SIN 


153 


he is gone? His ideas are so extraordinary and 
he actually reads ‘John Bull.’ ” 

Mrs. Stone lifted her hands in horror; and well 
she might for the editor of this excellent paper 
had found occasion to call her to order more than 
once, and had even gone so far as to suggest that 
beer and the Church had nothing in common until 
Mrs. Stone bestowed her hand on the Reverend 
Robert. Mrs. Stone had been furious and had 
immediately consulted her lawyer with the view 
of suing for damages, but her lawyer had already 
lost several such cases connected with the same 
periodical and soon convinced Mrs. Stone that her 
case was groundless. 

The service proceeded as usual; little Dicky 
Morse saying the prayers. Then after a hymn, 
John entered the pulpit and there was a silence 
that was profound. 

“My text tonight is one that is familiar to you 
all, and I would to God that its meaning had be¬ 
come known to you many years ago—The Wages 
of Sin Is Death. I am not speaking of death 
hereafter, but of death here, now. 

“The wages of sin is death in this world. 
Death to your hopes and ambitions; death to your 
better selves; death to the sanctity of the home; 
death to the innocent. 

“I am going to tell you what I have seen sin, 
in all its hideousness, do since I have come among 
you. A few weeks ago I had occasion to visit 
a neighborhood within your parish and directly 
under the jurisdiction of your Vicar. This miser¬ 
able district is called Cross Keys Passages. It is 
the home of vice, of crime, of immorality; and 
you are directly responsible. In this hellish dis- 


154 


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trict are two public houses, so dirty and so ill- 
kept that no farmer would herd pigs in them. 
They are owned by the wife of your Vicar. The 
money which pays for the beer purchased in these 
houses is got by crime and by prostitution, and 
this money eventually finds its way into the 
pockets of the woman who owns them.” 

There was a breathless silence and more than 
one listener would gladly have stayed away. At 
the beginning of John Keen’s attack on her 
property, Mrs. Stone had fallen sideways onto 
the cushions in her pew and fainted. 

“A short time ago,” continued John, “I saw 
the death of a little girl. She had been ruined 
and cast aside and, like a good many more of her 
unfortunate sisters, she had drifted to Cross 
Keys Passages. She died of a disease so foul and 
yet so pitiful that I dare not utter it. 

“The man who was responsible for this little 
girl’s downfall is the owner of this degraded dis¬ 
trict of Cross Keys and a member of this church. 
A Mr. Molstein.” 

The silence if anything seemed to grow more 
intense. The face of Mr. Molstein had turned 
from white to grey and was now a sickly yellow. 
Only one man in the congregation was smiling 
and that was Mr. McClumpha who with his note¬ 
book in hand was busy taking down every word 
of John’s sermon. There was joy in his heart. 
He would publish it in the morning edition as 
preached, word for word, for he realized that 
every word John uttered was the truth. 

“I know many ladies here present who to the 
world and to their husbands are virtuous wives, 
but are just as immoral as the poor, be-powdered, 


SIN 


155 


over-dressed women who nightly ply their ghastly 
trade in our streets. I know of scores of men 
here present who in the eyes of the world are 
model husbands, yet night after night they com¬ 
mit adultery.” 

There was a stir in the congregation at these 
words. One old gentleman sitting directly in 
front of Mrs. Cochrane rose to his feet to pro¬ 
test, when Mrs. Cochrane jerked him back again 
with the handle of her umbrella. 

“You stand up again,” she whispered fiercely, 
“and I will beat your head off.” 

Margaret was crying at the splendidness of 
her lover. She never realized how much she 
loved John until now. 

“Do you know,” w r ent on John, “that last Sun¬ 
day two poor people came to this church and 
were refused admittance because they were poorly 
dressed, and going away from the church door, 
heartbroken to think that the Church of God was 
barred to them, the man got hopelessly drunk, 
while the poor dear woman died yesterday morn¬ 
ing? Her husband was arrested last night for 
manslaughter. I want to tell you that this man’s 
wife was just as foully, as cruelly, as brutally 
murdered by your miserable Vicar as the little 
children of Belgium were murdered by the Huns. 

“For all the sins you commit, rest assured you 
must pay the price. Not necessarily in this world 
but in the next. The women who have proved 
unfaithful to their husbands are to be pitied. It 
is the husbands who are to blame, for do they 
not leave their wives alone at home while they 
in turn seek the neglected wives of other men? 
The result is obvious. 


156 


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“During the four years I spent in France among 
our brave troops, I saw many a soul pass over 
the great divide, and from the depths of my heart 
I can say that there was not one of these dear 
lads that did not die with a sure and certain 
hope of a great God of love awaiting them. 

“I could not name twenty here tonight who 
are fit to join these comrades of mine.” John 
then exhorted them to have a little kindliness, 
and a little sympathy for suffering humanity. He 
prayed that the men present would remember 
their sacred marriage vows. 

Then John pulled off his vestments and tore 
off his collar, saying, “These were meant to be 
an emblem of Christ. Behold they have become 
a badge of shame. Never again will I wear 
them, for under these emblems live some of the 
greatest hypocrites in the world, your Vicar 
among them.” 

John seemed very weary as he uttered these 
words, and his face had grown pale. Turning 
towards the altar he said, “Lord, now lettest 
Thou Thy servant depart in peace,” and stepping 
down from the pulpit he made his way into the 
vestry and from thence into the street. 

As John left the pulpit nearly everybody rose. 
There was talking in angry voices and more 
than once the expression, “Action for libel” was 
heard. 

Mrs. Cochrane had been firmly grasping her 
umbrella for the last ten minutes. When John 
had mentioned the name of Molstein, he had 
pointed an accusing finger directly at him, and 
with joy in her heart Mrs. Cochrane at last knew 
Mr. Molstein. Rising with the others she went 


SIN 


157 


over to where Molstein was sitting, for he at any 
rate felt too shaken to rise, and Mrs. Cochrane 
without uttering a word brought down her um¬ 
brella across his head, not once, but again and 
again. There was blood in her eyes. So this 
was the reptile who sent girls to the streets, eh! 
Molstein tried to ward off the blows but he was 
powerless. Mrs. Cochrane was a husky woman 
weighing over two hundred pounds and every 
time she struck Molstein he thought that his last 
hour had come. He tried to dodge her, but it 
was of no avail and Mrs. Cochrane beat him to 
her heart’s content, winding up by inserting the 
crook of her umbrella in his collar and tearing 
the shirt and waistcoat almost from off him. 
Having satisfied her desires, she cast around for 
fresh prey and sighted the vicar, but the vicar 
also sighted her and before she could get any¬ 
where near him he was racing as fast as a taxi 
could take him in the direction of his home, leav¬ 
ing his beloved wife to the care of Providence. 

Steven got Mrs. Cochrane out of the church 
with great difficulty for she was exhausted and 
was now crying bitterly. Margaret came home 
with them and helped get Mrs. Cochrane to bed. 
Once there Mrs. Cochrane’s old spirit of cheer¬ 
fulness came back and she laughed until the 
tears again came into her eyes. 

“I bet that guy don’t want to see me no more, 
my dear. I sure gave him something to carry 
on with,” and Margaret was obliged to laugh with 
Mrs. Cochrane at the ludicrous figure of Mr. 
Molstein. 

The evening was getting late, so kissing Mrs. 
Cochrane good night, Margaret asked Steven to 
get her a taxi, and returned home. 


XX 


When Margaret arrived home she was aston¬ 
ished to find her chaperon in tears. 

“Oh, Miss Hinton, I have just received a tele¬ 
gram from my brother at Richmond. He is very 
ill and wants me to go to him.” 

“I am sorry, Mrs. Nelson, but don’t waste time, 
dear,” said Margaret sympathetically. “Let us 
see if it is possible for you to catch a train 
tonight.” 

On consulting the A. B. C. Railway Guide, 
Margaret was able to inform Mrs. Nelson that 
she would just have time to catch the eleven- 
thirty train from Broad Street Station. She 
helped her pack a few things and ’phoned for 
a taxi. 

“Good bye, dear Mrs. Nelson, stay as long as 
you wish and I do hope that your brother will 
soon be well again.” 

When Mrs. Nelson had left, Margaret, after 
locking the door of her flat, proceeded to disrobe. 
She looked very pretty as she sat before her 
mirror clad in her night robes. She felt very 
tired and oh, so very miserable, as she sat musing 
over the events of the evening. She thought 
how splendidly John had spoken and then came 
the sad, sad, thought; he had wrecked his career 
and only God knew when he would be in a posi¬ 
tion to ask her to marry him. The clock striking 
the hour, Margaret realized with a start that it 
was midnight and kicking off her slippers she 
158 


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159 


was in the act of creeping into bed when there 
was a knock at her door. 

Hastily donning a dressing gown, she went to 
the door, “Who is there?” she cried. 

“Only me, Miss, please let me see you,” an¬ 
swered a girl’s voice. 

Margaret immediately opened the door and saw 
standing before her a young girl of about twenty- 
three or four who appeared to be laboring under 
some great emotion. 

“Come in,” said Margaret. “Please sit down 
and tell me what I can do for you.” 

Lily Mears was a splendid actress and in a 
voice broken with sobs she told Margaret a piti¬ 
ful tale of having been driven from home by her 
stepfather who had treated her very cruelly since 
her mother died. 

“I heard you sing at a concert once, Miss, and 
a few days ago I saw you enter this house. You 
have such a kind face, I felt sure that you would 
help me if ever I needed help.” 

“There, there, dear, don’t worry; fortunately 
my friend has been called away this evening. You 
shall have her bed, so please take off your hat 
while I make you a cup of tea. A good night’s 
rest and you will feel much better. In the morn¬ 
ing we will see what can be done for you.” 

What a nuisance is conscience. Lily Mears 
would have very readily given hers away at that 
moment. She recognized the genuine sympathy 
of this woman and her heart was already begin¬ 
ning to fail her. 

“Don’t be a fool,” said Lily to herself, “you 
have got to live and it means five pounds for you, 
and after all there will be no great harm done.” 


160 


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Lily Mears was just on the point of giving up 
her mission when Margaret returned with a tray 
daintily set with two cups of tea and some bis¬ 
cuits. 

“There, dear,” said Margaret, “drink this tea 
and eat a little, it will do you good. I will join 
you in drinking a cup of tea.” 

Margaret placed the tray on the table and 
returned to the kitchen to put out the light, and 
Lily, stifling the voice of her better self, hastily 
bent forward. There was a slight movement of 
her hand and the deed was done. 

When Margaret entered the room, Lily was 
sipping her tea with evident enjoyment. Margaret 
took her own cup and slowly drained it while 
Lily watched her with frightened and astonished 
eyes. She wished now that she had never come 
here. It was all very well to tell her that there 
was to be no harm done to Margaret. Lily knew 
the ghastly secrets of her employers only too 
well. 

“I am feeling so sleepy, dear,” said Margaret, 
“do you mind if I lie down?” and without waiting 
for an answer she staggered through the curtains 
to her bed and falling across it was immediately 
asleep. 

“Well,” said Lily bitterly, “this is my last job 
for Mrs. Schmidt. After this I will pull straight.” 
She crossed over to the window and pulled up 
one of the blinds for a few minutes and then 
pulled it down again. Shortly after there was 
a knock at the door and Lily opened it. 

Lord Bitterne stood there, his eyes shining with 
a passion that even Lily had never seen before. 
He caught sight of Margaret through the cur- 


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161 


tained doorway and with a bound he was by her 
side and had her in his arms while he rained 
passionate kisses on her lips, her eyes, her neck. 

Lily Mears stood watching him when Lord Bit- 
terne happened to look up and saw her. 

“All right, girl, you may go,” he said, and 
then the womanhood of Lily Mears, long since 
dormant, suddenly blazed into light. 

“Don’t you believe it. I am not going,” she 
cried, “but you are. Go now or I’ll scream for 
help.” 

“For God’s sake, girl, control yourself. What 
is the matter?” said Lord Bitterne in an agitated 
voice, laying Margaret back on her bed and 
going towards Lily. 

“Don’t you touch me, but go! I am bad, God 
knows, but this woman is not and I am not 
going to let you touch her.” 

“Oh, nonsense, girl, I wouldn’t harm her for 
the world. Go away. There’s a good girl.” 

Lily refused to budge, however, and Lord Bit¬ 
terne, his brain on fire, turned again to Margaret 
and tried to take her up in his arms. 

And then Lily screamed. 

Lord Bitterne dropped Margaret as though he 
had been shot and rushed towards the door when 
it was flung open and John Keen stood facing 
him. Silence, perfect silence. John Keen looked 
at Lord Bitterne and then he saw Margaret lying 
on the bed. And then he saw nothing but red. 

There were real screams now and in a very 
short time the room was filled with other resi¬ 
dents of the house. John Keen had Lord Bit¬ 
terne by the throat and Lord Bitterne was more 


162 


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than half way to death when he was literally torn 
away from John Keen by main force. 

Lord Bitterne’s face was ashy, blood was oozing 
from his mouth and he was gasping for breath. 
The people, inhabitants of the other flats, re¬ 
peatedly asked what was the matter. Lily Mears 
was thoroughly frightened, for if the police were 
called in it would be a very serious matter for her; 
so mustering up her courage she gave them to 
understand that the man Bitterne had forced his 
way into the flat and insulted John Keen. They 
appeared satisfied with her explanation and de¬ 
parted grumbling about midnight brawls taking 
place and disturbing their rest. 

Lord Bitterne had disappeared and was now 
almost at his home, for he was indeed a sick man 
in more ways than one. 

When the last person had left the room Lily 
drew back the curtains that divided the bedroom 
from the living-room, for when John Keen had 
seized Lord Bitterne by the throat she had un¬ 
consciously drawn them together, which had 
proved a blessing, for no one had seen Margaret 
lying asleep on her bed, otherwise things might 
have turned out quite different. 

John Keen sank into a chair. His face was 
ghastly and Lily felt horribly frightened. She 
dared not speak, but just stood and watched 
John Keen. How long she had been standing 
there she did not know, when the silence was 
broken by Margaret asking for something to 
drink. John sprang to his feet and entered her 
bedroom. Margaret was still heavy with sleep 
and did not recognize him. 

“Mr. Keen,” said Lily, “don’t you know me? 


SIN 


163 


I am Lily Mears. We used to go to school 
together.” 

But John Keen was like one in a trance. He 
was suffering great pain, for he thought that 
Lord Bitterne had ruined Margaret. 

“John, dear, is it you?” cried Margaret who had 
at last recognized him. “What are you doing 
here? Am I ill, dear?” 

John crossed over to the bed and took Margaret 
by the hand. 

“Speak to me, John,” cried Margaret in a voice 
of terror. “What is the matter?” 

And then kindly nature came to John’s relief, 
and throwing himself on his knees he sobbed as 
though his heart would break, while Margaret 
put her arms around his neck and tried to com¬ 
fort him. 

It seemed a long time before he was quieted, 
and then he looked at Lily Mears and spoke. It 
sounded like the voice of another man than that 
of John Keen. “I want you to tell me what 
happened,” he said. 

“I will. Believe me, I will. But first of all 
listen, Miss Hinton is all right. Nobody harmed 
her, for I screamed.” 

A mad rush of joy came to John and he crushed 
Margaret to his breast and kissed her again and 
again. “Oh, God,” he cried, “I thank Thee, I 
thank Thee.” Margaret seemed so happy as 
John held her close and wondered what it was 
all about. It seemed to her like a strange dream. 

“Mr. Keen and Miss Hinton,” said Lily looking 
first at John and then at Margaret. “I want you 
to hear my story and judge me as you would like 
God to judge you. 


164 


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“Mr. Keen, do you remember when we went 
to school together, in our little village ?” 

“I cannot just call you to mind,” said John, 
“but your face certainly seems familiar.” 

“I am Lily Mears.” 

“Lily Mears! Of course I remember you now; 
but you were such a shy little girl in those days 
while now—” 

“You needn’t say it, Mr. Keen. God forgive 
me, I wish with all my heart that I had never 
left Wickham. Mother got me a place here in 
London. I was governess at a place in Fulham 
and very happy. One evening I met a gentleman 
who made love to me. Like a fool I believed him 
and it was not long before I was obliged to leave 
my situation to hide my shame. 

“My baby was born prematurely and only lived 
a few hours. Then I was obliged to look for 
another situation, but no one wanted a girl who 
could not give references. 

“Eventually I met a woman, a she-devil if there 
ever was one. She took me home with her and 
gave me pretty clothes to wear and night after 
night she forced me to—” And here Lily broke 
down and cried bitterly. 

“Then,” said Lily, “Mrs. Schmidt gave me other 
work to do. She used to procure invitations to 
parties and my work was to try and find out 
how many of the married ladies were really happy 
and whether there were any that needed money. 
For God’s sake, don’t condemn me, but scores of 
names I have taken to Mrs. Schmidt and she 
has done the rest.” 

Margaret was looking at Lily with compassion 
in her eyes. 


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165 


“Yesterday,” continued Lily, “I was told to 
come here this evening and beg for help and then 
I was to drug this young lady and leave her.” 
There was no compassion in Margaret’s eyes now, 
only horror. “I did drug her, but I could not 
go on with it, so I stayed and saved her, Mr. 
Keen. She is as pure today as yesterday.” 

Margaret gave a cry and swooned away in 
John’s arms. 

“You may go, Lily, I forgive you with all my 
heart, little girl, for after all you have saved 
Margaret, but,” and here John’s voice grew 
stern, “I will drag this woman to the police court 
and expose her.” 

“No, no, Mr. Keen,” cried Lily piteously, “you 
must not. Don’t you see it would mean prison 
for me? And oh, Mr. Keen, I do so want to be 
good again.” 

“You are right, Lily,” said John, “but please 
help Miss Hinton to bed and I will wait in the 
next room.” 

Margaret, however, was recovering from her 
swoon and smiled rather weakly at John. 

“You must go, dear,” she said, “and John you 
must not worry. I’m safe now.” 

“I dare not leave you in your weak state, Mar¬ 
garet. Where is Mrs. Nelson?” 

“Mrs. Nelson,” replied Lily Mears, “was called 
away by a false telegram, but Miss Hinton, will 
you trust me for once? Let me try to show how 
bitterly penitent I am. Let me stay with you 
until Mrs. Nelson comes back.” 

“I will, dear,” said Margaret. 

John took Margaret in his arms again and said, 
“Little girl, I want you to marry me as soon as 


166 


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possible, for I am going out to America, dear. 
We shall be bitterly poor at first, but please 
God, I shall succeed. Will you come, dear?” 

And Margaret's answer was, “Look into my 
eyes, dear,” and she kissed him long and tenderly. 


XXI 


On Monday the Morning News was selling 
rapidly. Mr. McClumpha had sat up until three 
A. M. writing a description of the evening service 
at St. Martha’s, and John Keen’s sermon, with the 
names of those whom John had mentioned appear¬ 
ing in bold type. 

London was delighted, of course, especially 
that community half way between the peerage 
and the slums. Mr. McClumpha received that 
morning ’phone calls too numerous to mention, 
some congratulating him, while several mentioned 
action for libel, but the editor of the Morning 
News only smiled. 

Mrs. Cochrane read the account lying in bed, 
for she was not feeling very well. The excite¬ 
ment of the previous evening had been too much 
for her. She was rather disappointed to see no 
mention of her assault on Molstein, but Mr. 
McClumpha, while he enjoyed seeing the wretch 
soundly thrashed, was too discreet to bring Mrs. 
Cochrane into the limelight. 

After finishing her breakfast, Mrs. Cochrane 
sent for Steven. 

“Say, Steve boy, I think I shall rest today; but 
you go down to Lord Bitterne’s place, I will 
come down on Wednesday.” 

Steven replied that he would rather stay with 
her until she was well again. 

“Oh, shucks, boy, I ain’t no chicken. You 
just run down and join your friend.” So Steven 
167 


168 


SIN 


went down to Oak Park. A car was there to 
meet him for he had wired to Lord Bitterne tell¬ 
ing him that he would arrive by the three o’clock 
train. 

Steven was delighted with the beautiful sur¬ 
roundings of the country home of Lord Bitterne. 
The house was built during the reign of Queen 
Elizabeth and the beautiful terraces and velvet 
lawns were perfectly planned. 

After Steven had been shown to his room and 
bathed his hands and face, he descended to the 
drawing-room and was introduced by his host 
to a number of people. He thought that Lord 
Bitterne did not seem to be quite himself, for his 
manner was strange and nervous and his face 
pale. 

Among those present was Mary Richards, and 
after greeting Steven she offered to show him the 
gardens. He gladly consented. He liked Mary 
Richards and found her an intelligent companion. 
They strolled through the grounds admiring the 
beautiful flowers and the wonderful Italian gar¬ 
den. The afternoon was very warm and in 
England the month of September is nearly 
always the best and brightest month of the year. 
Coming to a summer house they sat down and 
Mary suddenly burst into tears. 

“Why, Miss Richards, what is the matter?” 
cried Steven in alarm. 

“Nothing very much, Mr. Hargraves, but 
George has again asked me to marry him and 
I know that I can never be his wife now; and 
Mr. Hargraves, I would give my soul to marry 
him.” 

This sounded like a paradox to Steven, for 


SIN 


169 


while he knew that Lord Bitterne was far from 
being perfect he wondered why Mary Richards 
should want his friend so much and yet refuse 
to marry him. 

“No,” went on Mary, “if he had asked me 
yesterday I know I should have gladly consented 
to become his wife; but after the events of last 
night I realize that it is impossible.” 

Steven wondered what had taken place the pre¬ 
ceding evening that prevented Miss Richards from 
accepting Lord Bitterne, but he held his peace. 

“Shall we return to the house, Mr. Hargraves?” 
said Mary. “It is nearly five-thirty and we dine 
down here at six.” 

Steven offered his arm and they retraced their 
steps towards the house. They met Lord Bit¬ 
terne on the terrace and Steven noticed that he 
was looking at them rather strangely. It was 
time to dress, however, so Steven made to his 
room and proceeded to go through the usual 
labor of dressing up like a waiter. If there was 
one thing that Steven disliked it was having to 
dress nearly every evening of his stay in England. 

But tonight he smiled while struggling with a 
refractory collar, for only a few days longer and 
then good old New York. Gee, he would be 
glad. He would go out every evening about 
seven o’clock and sit down to supper in the same 
old clothes. For after all the custom of donning 
evening clothes, handed down to us from a re¬ 
mote period, is certainly a useless one. 

The gong sounded, and on reaching the draw¬ 
ing-room Steven was asked by Lady Vermont to 
take a young lady in to dinner by the name of 
Miss Sadler, who gave Steven to understand that 


170 


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she was eighteen and had never been engaged. 
So Steven looked forward to a fairly pleasant 
evening. 

The English aristocracy do not take nearly so 
long to eat when they are staying in the coun¬ 
try as they do in town. It is just one of those 
mysteries that no one can fathom. In town an 
hour and a half seems about the usual time to 
fill their larders, while in the country they can 
perform the same operation in forty-five minutes. 

After dinner Steven, asking his companion to 
excuse him for a few minutes, went to his room 
to get some cigarettes. He met the butler in 
the hall who handed him a letter. 

“It has just come by special messenger, sir,” 
he said. 

Steven recognized the handwriting of Mrs. 
Cochrane and with a certain amount of alarm he 
opened it and read. It was only a page or so 
but it told Steven of the dastardly attempt to ruin 
Margaret Hinton. “So come right home, boy. 
Don’t stay with that wretch.” Steven was 
astounded. How could it be possible? Surely, 
Mrs. Cochrane must be mistaken; and then he 
thought of what Mary Richards had said—“After 
the event of last night I can never marry him.” 

Steven sought out Mary Richards and led her 
on to the terrace. 

“Miss Richards,” he said in a quiet voice, “I 
have just received a letter from Mrs. Cochrane 
and she tells me of something that happened last 
night connected with Lord Bitterne.” 

Mary turned her head away. 

“Miss Richards, this story that I have read, 
is it true?” 


SIN 


171 


“Yes,” said Mary in a whisper, “God help him, 
it is true.” 

Steven left her and went in search of Lord 
Bitterne. The guests were at bridge and the ter¬ 
race was almost deserted. He found Lord Bit¬ 
terne and looked him steadily in the face, but 
Lord Bitterne turned his face away in shame. 

“I am leaving your house right now, damn you 
for a cowardly swine! You may thank God that 
Miss Hinton is no relation of mine,” and turn¬ 
ing on his heels he went to his room and pro¬ 
ceeded to pack. 

Lord Bitterne sat alone where Steven had left 
him and cursed the day he was born. How bit¬ 
terly he regretted his past life. Why had he not 
fought against the evil spirit that had overcome 
his better nature? Why did not God give him 
strength to resist? He had prayed enough but 
no help ever seemed to come. 

Just then Lord Bitterne caught sight of the 
sun going down and watched the various hues as 
the hills were first purple then blue. Lord Bit¬ 
terne had the soul of an artist and very often 
he would take up the brush, and some of his 
canvases showed more than ordinary talent. 
Just then he noted a faint pink line that was 
slowly sinking into a purple directly beneath it 
and he wondered what the combination would be 
when the two colors met. 

He was disturbed in his reverie by the butler. 

“A letter has just arrived for your Lordship. 
It was brought down by your agent.” 

Lord Bitterne took it and dismissed the butler 
and continued to watch the colors in the sky 
while he slowly opened the letter. It was some 


172 


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minutes before he gave it a thought, for the sky 
was beautiful. With a sigh, Lord Bitterne took 
up the letter and read: 

“Your Lordship will be pleased to know that at 
last we have found trace of your mother, the Lady 
Nancy Bitterne, but we regret to say that she died 
some five months after leaving your father.” 

Lord Bitterne was crying; how his eyes hurt 
him tonight; he would have to see a doctor about 
them later on. 

“Dear, dear mother, I wish that you had 
lived, but thank God! you did not have to face 
a life of poverty.” 

Then he read on! 

“We have very great pleasure in informing your 
Lordship that before Lady Bitterne died she gave 
birth to a daughter, your sister, who is still living.” 

His sister, his own dear sister; how wonderful, 
and then he read on! 

“She was brought up by the good woman who 
took care of your mother and was well cared for. 
She became a singer of some note and today is known 
as Margaret Hinton.” 

Crash! bang! bang! Why they must be in 
action again. Funny that they did not call him. 
Probably some German sub. He would turn 
out and see what it was all about. He reached 
out his hand and touched a rose bush and then 
he remembered. His soul sank into Hell. In 
this brief moment of remembrance he suffered 
keen torture. 


SIN 


173 


Mary Richards was walking on the terrace in 
the warm twilight air. She noticed Lord Bit- 
teme sitting there and turned to go back when 
she caught sight of his face. With a cry she 
was beside him, and throwing herself on her 
knees she looked into his face. 

“What is it, dear, you look very ill? George, 
dear, it is Mary. Speak to me for God's sake!" 
cried Mary piteously, for the face of Lord Bit- 
terne was like that of a dead man. 

Lord Bitterne never answered, but let his hand 
rest on her head. Mary seemed contented that 
it should be so and knelt there. 

“Mary,” it was only the faintest of whispers, 
but Mary heard. 

“Yes, yes, dear," she cried, “what is it?” 

“Read that letter.” 

Mary glanced down at his feet and seeing the 
letter, picked it up and read it w’ith difficulty in 
the growing darkness. And then Mary under¬ 
stood. 

All her womanly sympathy w’ent out for this 
boy. How aw’ful, his own sister. But, thank God, 
the crime did not happen. 

“George, dear, do you still want me to marry 
you r” 

For answer, George bent down and kissed her. 

“Very well, dear, just as soon as you wish; 
but dearest one, don't grieve. Look at the beau¬ 
tiful sky.” 

“I can't see it. My God! I am blind,” cried Lord 
Bitterne. 

Mary knew’ that her future husband w’ould 
never see again. The doctors had w’arned him 


174 


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that any sudden shock would leave him totally 
blind. 

It was almost dark now and the heavy dew 
was falling, but still they remained. Lord Bit- 
terne gazing with sightless eyes towards the dis¬ 
tant hills while Mary remained on her knees, her 
head in his lap. 

There was a step on the gravel sidewalk. It 
was Steven leaving. He was passing them when 
Mary called to him. He went up to where they 
were sitting and was amazed to see Mary kneel¬ 
ing at the feet of Lord Bitterne. 

“Is that you, Steve?” said George. 

“Yes,” replied Steven. 

“Mr. Hargraves,” said Mary, “I have just prom¬ 
ised to marry George and, Mr. Hargraves, George 
has just received a letter from his solicitors. They 
have found out that his mother is dead and she 
left a little girl. Her name is Margaret Hinton 
and, God help us, George is blind.” 

It was Steven now of old New York days, his 
one arm around his friend. 

“Don’t worry, old chap, don’t worry. Miss 
Richards, God bless you,” and Steven stooped and 
kissed her head. George gripped Steven by the 
hand. 

“Goodbye, Steve, try to think well of me, 
won’t you?” 

“Surely, George, I will old chap, don’t worry 
any more.” 

“And Steve,” said Lord Bitterne, “will you 
call and tell my sister?” 

“Yes, George, I will. Goodbye,” and Steven 
walked slowly away. 

Both Steven and George at that moment were 


SIN 


175 


thinking of John Keen’s words of the previous 
evening, “For the wages of sin is death, death 
to your hopes; death to your ambitions; death 
to your better self.” 

Lord Bitterne remained in the same position. 
It was past midnight before they were discovered 
and it was a house of sorrow that night. 


XXII 


It was past midnight when Steven arrived in 
London and calling a taxi he went straight home 
to bed, but not to sleep. Poor Steven was too 
sad to sleep. He felt just a little bitter towards 
the great Creator, for he knew that no punish¬ 
ment would be harder for Lord Bitterne to bear 
than total blindness. He sat in his room think¬ 
ing until it was daylight and then went out in 
the cool morning air for a stroll. 

For years afterward he would look back on that 
evening, and deep thought had shown him that 
God was very merciful after all: if nothing had 
prevented the mad infatuation for Margaret last 
Sunday, something a million times more awful 
than a man losing his sight would have happened. 
A sweet girl would have been robbed of her vir¬ 
tue, by her own brother. Steven knew that only 
God could ever cure his friend of his terrible 
failing, and God had cured him. Never again 
would Lord Bitterne look on a pretty face to 
desire it. 

Steven returned to the house in time for break¬ 
fast and was delighted to see Mrs. Cochrane at 
the table. 

“Hello, Steve boy, you don’t live on a farm 
any more. What did you get up so early for?” 

Steven replied that he could not sleep. 

“I don’t suppose that you could,” said Mrs. 
Cochrane, “coming straight from that awful 
wretch.” 


176 



SIN 


177 


“Hush,” said Steven, “something terrible has 
happened, Mrs. Cochrane. I will tell you about 
it after breakfast.” 

Mrs. Cochrane immediately noticed how sad 
Steven was looking and quietly finished her 
breakfast. 

When they had finished, Steven told Mrs. 
Cochrane the sad story, and she was dumb¬ 
founded. 

“Poor boy,” she sobbed, “ain’t it just awful? 
But, Steve, wouldn’t it have been terrible if—” 

“Yes,” said Steven, “I realize that George has 
got off light after all; but Mrs. Cochrane, I am 
going to see Lady Margaret. Will you come 
with me?” 

“Why sure, boy, but who is Lady Margaret?” 

Steven explained to her that Margaret Hinton 
was now Lady Margaret. 

“It beats me, Steve, how that can be; but I 
guess I am not acquainted with the laws of this 
country.” 

Mrs. Cochrane and Steven were soon at 
Margaret’s apartment and on being admitted 
were greeted by her and John Keen. Margaret 
did not look at all well; her face was pale and 
there were dark rings under her eyes that spoke 
of suffering. Nevertheless there was a happy look 
in her eyes that neither Mrs. Cochrane or Steven 
had seen before. 

“Mrs. Cochrane, I want you to meet my fu¬ 
ture wife,” said John smiling. 

“Say, Mr. Keen, you thank your lucky stars 
that I ain’t a man or I sure would have stolen 
this little girl from you. Come right here, 
honey,” and taking Margaret in her arms she 


178 


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held her so tightly that Margaret gasped for 
breath, while she kissed her again and again. 
She released Margaret at last and after wiping 
those dear, motherly eyes of hers asked John 
if he did not feel jealous. 

“Never of you, Mrs. Cochrane,” replied John, 
in an affectionate voice and his answer so pleased 
Mrs. Cochrane that John had to submit to the 
same treatment as his betrothed. 

“I am as jealous of you, Mr. Keen, as I can 
possibly be. That is about the only way I know 
to congratulate you,” said Steven. 

Margaret appeared so very happy that Steven 
hardly knew how to tell her the sad news, and 
Mrs. Cochrane knowing something of what was 
passing in Steven’s mind decided to help him 
out. 

“Did you know, dear, that Lord Bitterne is 
totally blind?” 

Margaret turned faint and weak and John took 
her in his arms. 

“Mrs. Cochrane,” said John in a hoarse voice, 
“never mention that name before us again.” 

“John,” said Steven, “I have a story to tell that 
concerns Lord Bitterne, Miss Hinton and your¬ 
self, and you must hear it. Afterwards if it is 
your wish I shall never mention his name again. 

“You know the sad story, Mr. Keen, of Lady 
Bitterne, George’s mother?” John bowed. “Well,” 
weat on Steven, “Lord Bitterne received a letter 
from his solicitors last evening. It came while I 
was there and the news it contained was such 
an awful shock that it deprived Lord Bitterne 
of his sight. 

“It appears that when Lady Bitterne was 


SIN 


179 


driven from home she went down to a little 
place in Kent called Leewood.” Margaret gave 
a start and looked earnestly at Steven. “She 
died there about five months afterwards, but 
before she died she gave birth to a little girl 
who, of course, is a sister to Lord Bitterne. The 
little girl was christened Margaret.” 

Horror, deep, frozen horror was on Margaret’s 
face. She tried to speak but no words came from 
her parched lips. 

There was no need for Steven to go on with 
his story. Everything was plain now. Mrs. 
Cochrane went over to Margaret and led her into 
her bedchamber. Margaret was really ill now and 
moaned piteously. 

Steven tried to comfort John and poor John 
felt very grateful. “Keen, remember that George 
has received his punishment direct from God 
and he is suffering now more than words could 
express,” said Steven. 

Mrs. Nelson who returned that morning was 
sent to ’phone a doctor, while Mrs. Cochrane put 
Margaret to bed. The doctor advised a good 
night’s rest and left a prescription. “She is just 
suffering from shock, but I think that she will 
be all right in the morning.” 

“Mr. Keen, your little girl wants to see you. 
You’ll have to excuse me,” said Mrs. Cochrane, 
“but I guess I’d better remain here and be her 
mother, because it ain’t proper for you to come 
into the lady’s bedroom if I ain’t here.” 

John came into the room and knelt by the 
side of Margaret. “What is it, dear?” he said. 

“John, I am so glad that you asked me to 
marry you on Sunday; because I was just think- 


180 


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ing that now I am somebody else—you know 
what I mean, dear—you would have been too 
proud.” 

“Well, Margaret, I have asked you to marry 
me,” said John. 

Margaret, with a faint smile on her white face 
replied that she was very happy and, “John, dear, 
tomorrow I am going on a journey. Will you 
come with me?” 

“Of course, sweetheart. Why I should not 
think of letting you travel alone in your weak 
state; but where do you intend going, dear?” 

“I am going down to see my brother,” said 
Margaret. 

The next morning Margaret accompanied by 
John, went down to the country house of Lord 
Bitterne. He was quite ill and under ordinary 
circumstances they would not have been allowed 
to see him, but the papers that morning had 
blazoned forth the romantic story. So the butler 
called her Lady Margaret and with a husky 
cough wished her every happiness. 

“God bless me, your Ladyship, I knew your 
mother, for I have been with this family for 
nearly forty years,” and Lady Margaret took him 
by the hand and thanked him. 

They were admitted to the bed-chamber of 
Lord Bitterne. His face was as white as the 
sheets, and his eyes were covered with a bandage. 
By his side sat Mary Richards who refused to 
leave his side day or night. She rose to her 
feet on their entrance and stood protectingly in 
front of Lord Bitterne with outstretched arms 
as if to shield him from their wrath, for Mary 


SIN 


181 


thought at first that they had come down to 
abuse him. 

Margaret walked up to Mary and they were 
in each other’s arms, but far too sad to cry. John 
Keen took Lord Bitterne by the hand and spoke 
his name. 

“It is John Keen, Bitterne. Your sister is 
here.” 

“Here?” said George and he turned his head 
and wept. 

Margaret went to him and placing her arm 
under his head bent and kissed him. 

“My dear brother,” she said, “you have suf¬ 
fered deeply, but please hurry and get well. We 
neither can remember our dear Mother but it is 
beautiful to know that from her home in Heaven 
she is looking down now and smiling on our meet¬ 
ing. I am going to marry John in a few days 
and we are going out to America, but we will 
come home some day and see you again. Then 
Mary and you will be married. So goodbye, 
dear brother, I will write regularly to you.” 

George clung to her hand for awhile. It 
seemed to him that his sister was something more 
than an angel. 

“God bless you both,” said George in a weak 
voice, and he could not say anything more for 
he was so filled with emotion. 

Margaret embraced Mary, and John in his sym¬ 
pathetic way, tried to tell her how splendid she 
was. 

The next day Margaret received a visit from 
her brother’s solicitor and she was informed that 
by the terms of their father’s will, half of the 
fortune belonged to her. She would gladly have 


182 


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not taken a penny, but Mr. Rider pointed out to 
her that she would only be robbing herself of an 
excellent income. 

Margaret at last consented to accept her half, 
but she had only one thought in her mind and 
that was that it would help her beloved John. 
Three weeks afterwards Lady Margaret became 
the wife of John Keen and in company with 
Mrs. Cochrane and Steven, who had prolonged 
their visit in order to be present at the wedding, 
sailed for America. 


XXIII 


Three years passed, very wonderful years for 
John and Margaret in that great land of oppor¬ 
tunity. John found no difficulty in making good, 
and today he is manager for the Greymarsh 
Mining Company in the little town of Molden. 
In addition to his duties at the mines he has also 
founded a small church, where Sunday after 
Sunday he preaches to the town folk, and his 
church is usually well filled. They like his way 
of explaining God to them. It is so different from 
the orthodox teaching. John tells them that such 
things as fire and brimstone are but products of 
the imagination, and that eternal life is for every 
one, good or bad, but that the wrong doer has to 
make good, if not in this world then in the next. 

And surely it is a very sad thing that, after the 
Church has for nearly two thousand years 
preached the doctrine of eternal damnation, a 
good man like John Keen should throw its articles 
of faith into the discard. True, it means a clearer 
conception of Jesus Christ and his divine love; it 
also means that men and women lead better lives, 
for countless millions have never been able to 
reconcile the love of God with endless torture, 
and once this blasphemy is banished life eternal 
becomes a very precious thing. 

There is a little curly-headed youngster in the 
home, who calls Mrs. Cochrane “Grandma,” for 
she spends a good deal of her time with Margaret. 
She has never forgotten her visit to Europe, 
183 


184 


SIN 


although she has no desire to return; unfor¬ 
tunately she saw the worst side of European life. 

Steven Hargraves is busy in New York, but 
never too busy to write, and always manages to 
spend Christmas at Molden. And in England, 
Lord Bitterne and Mary are happy, very happy. 
It is a beautiful sight to see Mary leading her 
blind husband through the country lanes. Her 
devotion is perfect and his affection apparent to 
all who know them. Lord and Lady Bitterne 
are planning a great reception next year, for 
John and Margaret are coming back for a visit. 

Sorrow such as they all suffered has led to 
happiness. From sin, joy may come. Sin was 
created by man, injuring men and women, causing 
untold suffering, bitter remorse, countless tears, 
and yet it is but the prelude to divine happiness. 
The price must be paid for freedom, but when that 
freedom is once gained who counts the cost? 

THE END 









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